Shopping for Sara
by sarapals with past50
Summary: We all know how the story ended. Here is a fluff story of what happened as Gil Grissom learns to live with Sara Sidle! Mostly fluff!
1. Chapter 1

**Shopping for Sara**

Chapter 1

Bath Soap, Shower Gel, Thongs, and Cheekies

It wasn't the first time Gil Grissom had shopped for Sara but on most occasions she had been standing beside him. Or had given him a specific list. He raked a hand over his face. There was too much of the stuff—and the store was a small one. He had checked twice and knew he had the right store; he just did not expect so many bottles, pots, tubs, and tubes of bath things. He had thought this would be easy—easy as the first time he had made a purchase for her.

With that thought, he grinned, thinking back to a night in San Francisco. They had eaten dinner and walked for hours before ending up in Chinatown. Sara knew her way around and had shown no concern for heights or narrow lanes as she led him up hundreds of steps through a maze of vines and trees or into narrow lanes and alleys with overhanging balconies covered in trailing flowers. She had been an excellent tour guide as she found and explained historical markers and statues—she knew her way around the city and she knew its history.

At some point, he had purchased a camera which had been taken over by Sara. "You need to be in the photos!" She giggled. They had one photograph of them together with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

It was much later, in Chinatown, when she had picked up a simple necklace—a silk cord with a small colored stone hanging from it—that he made his first purchase for Sara. A gift, he said, for showing him around, making him laugh. He did not say how young she made him feel with her quick, broad smile, easy-going manner, and contagious enthusiasm. He was absolutely certain he had fallen in love that night. An invisible web had surrounded him in her presence; he had been caught with such ease. It would be years before he fully realized how that net had wrapped his mind and heart with Sara Sidle.

His hands had worked their way into his pockets and he rocked slightly as he remembered one day that had changed his life in unimaginable ways. His face softened into a smile briefly before he frowned again at the rows of bottles displayed in front of him.

A voice asked, "Do you need help, sir?" A young woman stood at his elbow.

Brought out of his reminiscence state, he nodded. "I'm not sure what to get—a citrus scent, very faint."

"Gel, wash, soap, scrub, or polish?"

His finger pointed. "A bottle—and—and something like a…" his fingers closed together "tub, I think." He had no idea there were so many fragrances in so many containers.

The girl counted on her fingers. "We have lemon, lemongrass, orange, satsuma, grapefruit, and several blends using citrus as a base." She reached for a small bottle. "Is it a specific one you want?"

"It's in a clear bottle and a very faint color, if that helps."

She smiled. "Lemongrass. Over here." They walked to another display. "Very soothing, very mild. We have it in bath soap, shower gel, a body scrub, a lotion." She picked up three items.

"The shower gel and lotion—her shampoo is in a blue bottle," he said, slightly hoping there was only one shampoo in a blue bottle.

A few minutes later, he left the store carrying everything he had wanted as well as several other items. He wanted Sara to feel comfortable in his house, to have familiar things to use.

Passing a bookstore, he remembered another gift he had purchased for Sara—a book. He knew she had mentioned the Christmas gift to Nick and Warrick resulting in a running joke between the two men as they teased Sara; never when he was nearby but he had heard their teasing. His attempt to explain the gift to Sara fell flat—saying they were working Christmas day and he wanted her to have a gift from someone made it sound like charity. When it really wasn't—he wanted to give her a special gift because…because he had feelings he could not easily explain.

He arrived at his second stop, equally overwhelming but a bit manageable because he was buying what he wanted and the store clerks, all female, were experts at providing what men wanted for women. It did not embarrass any of them as they made estimates of sizes by posing for him showing him dozens of styles and colors of very personal lingerie. Lace, silk, cotton, v-string, thong, cheekies—one he had not heard before, hip huggers, bikinis; he knew what Sara wore and could not stop smiling as he made selection. He paid for his purchases and waited while the items were wrapped in the store's trademark bright pink paper.

As he made his way home, he checked and rechecked his mental list: a clean house, lots of food, new sheets on the bed, new towels in the bathroom, bath essentials including a new toothbrush, sexy lingerie of his choice. For the first time, Sara was coming to his house as his—his girlfriend, his lover. He frowned; he did not like either of those words to describe what he had with Sara Sidle. His sole mate, his partner, the woman he loved—he could not keep the smile from his lips. Sara would laugh at his attempt to put a name to their relationship.

After she had come to Vegas, they had developed a complicated relationship—not always a positive one—they would be overwhelmed with work, he was often forgetful. He had finally realized how often he stumbled with his supervision of Sara—and the negative impact it had on their personal relationship. Once she had said he was emotionally unavailable; her words had hurt more than she realized. He tried to change—not quickly, but he never wanted to hear those words from her again. Slowly, carefully, he reached out to her, eating with her, giving assignments so they worked together; then in a split second everything changed—and he made promises to everything holy to change his selfish ways, to be given a chance to change his life.

Remarkably, it had been easy; effortless, they became committed lovers, in her surroundings, in her small apartment. Together, they ate; they read to each other, they watched old movies. They provided comfort, kindness, and compassion to each other, and they made love in her bed, surrounded by her things. Tonight would be the first time she came to him—to his house and his bed—with plans to spend the night.

His stomach clenched with nervousness; he wanted everything to be, if not perfect, then nearly so, for Sara's first over night stay. He checked his watch—two hours. She had worked a double and he had officially taken a leave day. Still, he hurried. He put the bag of bath gel, lotion, and toothbrush in the bathroom which was gleaming after his scrub down earlier in the day; the pink wrapped garments, he placed on the bed.

Quickly surveying the kitchen and living area, he wished for flowers to add color to his white-gray-black furnishings—and remembered sending a plant to Sara when she threatened to leave the lab. He could not remember why he had sent a plant instead of flowers. And shook his head at another one of his knuckle-headed decisions. He dug around in a cabinet and found placemats with colorful stripes and placed those on the table. He paced, returned to the bedroom and brought the pink gift bag to the table.

He set the oven temperature, paced until the oven heated, and placed a vegetable lasagna inside. The bread and salad would wait until last minute. He paced again, decided the pink bag did not belong on the table; he took it back into the bedroom. He rechecked everything, thinking he had not been this nervous in twenty years.

Glancing at his watch, he undressed and stepped into the shower. Afterwards, he dried every drop of water from the walls and hung his damp towel in the closet. Deciding the bottle of gel needed to be in the shower, he emptied the bag of its contents and lined each item beside the sink.

"Looks like a hotel," he muttered as he moved everything again. Giving up, he towel-dried his hair and pulled on pants and tried several shirts before making a decision. To himself, he said "Get a grip—she's been here before." But it had been a different situation. Before he had buttoned his shirt, his phone rang.

"I'm here," her soft voice playfully filled his ear.

"I'll be down." He had parked outside so she could park her car in his garage space and, within minutes, he was opening the car door and extending a hand to her, pulling her to him as the garage door cranked closed. Sara smiled when he said, "You're here" and tugged her into a hug. A long, soft kiss followed. He wanted to hold her, tightly, for the next twenty-four hours.

She broke away. "Your feet—you're not wearing shoes!" Then her hands cradled his face and she kissed him. "I love the way you smell—clean and very sexy." Her lips skimmed across his ear; her palm felt his face change into a smile. "Every light was red," she whispered; a sweet, husky sound warmed his neck as she sighed.

"Come in—are you hungry? Dinner is almost ready." He wrapped an arm around her back.

Sara hesitated. "I—I brought some things—my bag."

"I'll get it later." He realized she was as nervous as he had been all day. He motioned toward the steps. She hesitated again. He turned to face her, lacing his fingers with hers.

"You know I love you." He said the words quietly, just above a whisper.

Her lips twitched into a smile. "You really love me?"

"You didn't know that?" He grinned as her hand touched his chest.

"I wanted to hear it again."

With that exchange they left the garage.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Of course we do not own CSI. If we did, certain things would never happen, and other things would! Enjoy our fluff as Grissom learns to live with a woman!_

**Shopping for Sara Chapter 2**

_Perfection _

Sara was nervous. She had promised to spend the night with Grissom and, while she did not regret her promise, she was anxious, uneasy. It was not the first time to be in his condo, but it was the first time she had made this promise.

Tapping fingers on the steering wheel, she stopped for traffic. She liked her apartment; she liked her bed and she liked having her own things around her. Glancing in her rearview mirror as she left the lab, she saw Nick and Warrick sharing a joke before getting into their vehicles. She took a deep breath.

"This will work," she murmured to herself. A small bag was on the seat behind her—she had agonized over what to bring before settling on simple—a shirt, toiletries, a night shirt. She could not remember the last time she had actually slept in a place other than her own bed, not counting sleeping in a chair at work. She knew her desire for her own things, sleeping in her own bed, went back to her childhood. To Grissom, she blamed insomnia when she would return to her place after being with him; she knew it frustrated him when she would dress and leave him to sleep alone.

Deep in thought, she arrived at his place quickly. She took another deep breath as she pressed his number.

He was waiting for her before she stopped her car. Sara watched him for a moment. His eyes were almost somber above a tentative smile, and for a second she wondered if he had secrets instead of worrying about her own. When he pulled her from the car, he was smiling, his eyes sparkled. They kissed and she had felt happiness surge through her.

For a few moments, she thought she was blushing. This is silly, she thought; I'm acting like a virgin. As they took a short flight of steps from garage to kitchen, she was almost lightheaded from his unexpected words _"You know I love you"_.

The aroma of lasagna filled her nose. "It smells great," she said. "Almost as good as you do!" She grinned, squeezing his hand. The first few minutes together were always awkward—two people trying to untangle thoughts and actions of previous hours.

Grissom held both of her hands. "You're looking at a happy man," he said, leaning forward to kiss her nose. "If I were twenty, that would be a stupid statement, but I'm pushing fifty and that means I'm entitled to happiness. I'm finally doing things I've wanted to do—should have done—years ago!"

Sara laughed at his declaration, loving his words, suddenly feeling secure and untroubled.

Bringing her hands to his lips, he kissed each one. "I'm happy you are here. Now, stand right there. I'll get your bag and we'll fix a salad, heat the bread, and eat. Talk." He chuckled. "Kiss." He released her hands and left her standing in the kitchen.

Instead of remaining in one place, Sara walked over and touched a button for music, knowing Grissom almost always played music when alone. Immediately, the sound of an opera filled the room from multiple speakers. She smiled; he liked it loud.

"Carmen," he said when he returned. He checked the lasagna before coming to stand beside her. "Have you been to an opera in Vegas?"

Sara laughed. "No, never been—not something…" she did not want to sound ignorant or disapproving of his choice of music, "just never crossed my mind. But I like this."

He pointed his thumb to the kitchen, "Salad." As he pulled a variety of food from the refrigerator—several leafy greens, tomatoes, olives, avocado, walnuts, broccoli, carrots, cucumbers—he said, "There's a small opera company in town—they are performing Carmen in a few weeks. Would you like to go?"

She stopped rinsing the greens. Wide-eyed, she asked "Do you think that's a good idea—I mean, an audience—lots of people."

He chuckled. "Rest assured. No one we know goes to this kind of thing. It's a small theater, a small group, and they hope to sell a hundred tickets. I think we would be unnoticed." She nodded, a wide smile forming across her face.

For several minutes, they prepared the ingredients for the salad in silence. Grissom stopped chopping and Sara looked up. "You know, we could go public," he said quietly.

Sara's head was shaking before he finished the sentence. "We've talked about this. I like us just the way we are."

Grissom smiled. "So do I." He chuckled. "But don't bring up sleeping in separate beds—someone might overhear you."

Her mouth dropped open in mock astonishment; her eyebrows lifted. "You left the room!" She picked up an olive and tossed it in his direction. With his knife, he quickly batted the olive over her head. They both laughed causing any awkwardness or unease between them to vanish.

During dinner, Grissom said, "I got you something today—several things, actually." Sara's eyes met his and he motioned toward the bedroom.

It took Sara eight seconds to place her fork on her plate and leave the table; several minutes passed before he followed to find her standing with one tissue wrapped item in hand, her arm elbow deep inside the gift bag.

"What is all of this?" She asked as she placed two more pink bundles on the bed.

Grissom stretched across the bed. "Dump everything out," he waved his hand for her to join him. "Sexy things," his voice sounded velvety soft.

Sara did as he directed, dumping the contents of the bag onto the bed and joining him as she began to unwrap the pink paper. "What have you done, Gil Grissom?" She teased, "You don't like my pink and white Target underwear?" She held up a dark purple lace panty.

"Cheekies," he explained when Sara made a comical face. "Shows more backside than a bikini." He continued as he folded a pillow behind his head. "I yearn to learn new things."

She giggled as she unwrapped another panty in bright blue.

"Bikini," he said.

By the time Sara had torn tissue from six more colorful panties, the bed looked like a child had spilled a box of crayons. She giggled as she stretched a lacy bright green panty over her head. "Does this mean I get to pick out yours?"

"As long as its boxers—no tight stuff," Grissom laughed. She leaned to him.

Within seconds, the tissue paper lifted and drifted to the floor; the gift bag landed on the floor with a soft 'plop' sound. The panties slipped from the bed and floated before lightly settling on the floor. The one demure item, a pink silk robe, managed to remain on the bed by casual chance or coincidental luck as Sara would find it later.

Grissom's mouth was on hers, opening it, tasting her tongue and holding her body in a tight clasp of his arms until she felt a pounding that was like an ocean's surf. It came from her own heart.

She wanted his mouth, his hands, his body joined to hers as urgent fingers unbuttoned his shirt and then he was pulling her shirt over her head. Her hands touched him, curving, stroking, feeling the smoothness of his shoulders and chest. They parted for seconds to lift and remove pants; Sara's body seemed to move of its own accord.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, embarrassed by her eagerness.

"Don't—we do what we want because we want each other, because we are happy with each other."

"Yes," she said with no more than a long breath. With her fingers in Grissom's hair, she brought her mouth to his, drinking him in, feeling his hardness between her legs.

His lips touched her breast; her nipple tightened, and a long sigh that was his name broke from her as pleasure radiated through her body. His hand slid along the curve of her waist, down her thigh, opening her with his fingers, sliding into the wet darkness within, and she made a small cry as her hands followed the harder curves of his body until she took his head between her hands, fiercely kissing him, moving, sucking, biting the tender skin of his neck and ear, tasting his unique fragrance.

Abruptly, Grissom stopped caressing her, raised himself on an elbow, holding her still with one hand as he looked down at her. His mind raced across time; Sara was not like any other woman; she was sexual, demanding but unsure, and at times, oddly inexperienced.

"What is it?" Sara asked. Her whisper trembled slightly.

Grissom pulled her against him. "My God," he said, sharply yet softly. He kissed her hair, her forehead, the delicate eyelids that hid her beautiful golden brown eyes. His hands explored the curves of her body as if she were the first woman he had ever known. He felt aroused and absorbed; urgent as she in his need to be part of her.

Sara's hunger flared again and again; she opened to him and seemed to pull him inside her, deep, thrusting. He raised himself on hands and they watched as, hard and glistening, he disappeared deep inside her, then slide up and thrust down again, while her hands moved over his chest, across his shoulders, to his neck.

His weight was on her, his hands raising her hips, his tongue meeting hers, and Sara felt an overwhelming sense of need and desire and passion that merged and became one with his own needs and desires. His lips murmured her name as their bodies moved together, and within her a rhythmic thought began that everything was perfect and would be forever.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! We always appreciate reviews. More to come..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Here's a long chapter-in celebration of two new babies! As well as for all of you who read and review with such faithfulness! Thanks so much! _

_Enjoy!_

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 3**

_A Bed, A Bug and A Bush (Part 1)_

The bullet had been found—it was always difficult to have a case hang on the one piece of evidence that was nearly impossible to find. And everything—all the paperwork, every case, every dead body—seemed to engulf every waking moment of his life. And his own time, the time he wanted desperately to claim with Sara, seemed to shrink to passing minutes. Grissom shoved another folder onto the rising stack on his desk, pausing to think.

When they were together, grabbing a few hours between doubles and overtime, it was an incredibly passionate experience. He knew Sara loved him, yet she would find a reason to leave him—his bed—in favor of his sofa or her own apartment. So he went to her small apartment—exposing their time together to anyone who might drive by her complex and recognize his vehicle. He spoke of his concern; her solution was to pick him up once he had parked in his garage and then drive to her place. And in her own bedroom she would stay in bed with him—most of the time.

As he thought, his fingers ruffled the papers on his desk. Here, he could convince himself he could handle the desire Sara elicited in him. They would handle their emotions while at work—his fingers came to his forehead; Sara more so than he at times. So far, they were safe from prying eyes and ears; he had not heard a whisper of their relationship.

His eyes closed. They had endured too much during the past twenty-four hours, he thought. Everyone had been exhausted, feverishly working as they solved the confusing, bewildering case. Sara had left minutes ago; she would be waiting at his garage door, exhaustion gone from her voice by the time he arrived.

His hand wiped across his face before he began to straightened the stack of files. One wrong turn after another, Grissom thought glumly and he would ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him and he would have no one to blame but himself. It was too much for a methodical, logical man who had lived a single life for too long. He did not think Sara would mind the time he spent with another woman; she trusted him, she would understand, especially after he explained the circumstances. Except some blabber-mouth in the lab had spread the "news" that Grissom had been seen with a woman; he sighed as he thought of several possible culprits.

He shook his head and stood.

Sara was predictable; she worked relentlessly just as the others. But her voice had been drained of its usual eagerness. Sadness filmed her eyes; he knew she had heard the spreading gossip. He blew air out of his lungs with such force, the papers on his desk moved—which caused him to move, leaving his office with one intention.

The knowledge that Sara was waiting for him stirred the hair on the nape of his neck and quickened his steps. He drove home in a mental fog, hoping a certain Prius would be parked near his garage.

And it was…

Without a word, he slid into the passenger seat. A few minutes later, he placed his hand over hers on the center console. Sara raised her brows but offered no comment. At times such as this, Grissom became acutely aware of his poor understanding of the opposite sex. Slowly, he realized Sara was suppressing a grin; she was nibbling her lip in the familiar way she did to keep from laughing.

Neither made a sound as she proceeded through a busy intersection but he could not take his eyes off the curves of her breasts as they rose gently in response to her movements. At last she glanced at him; her sparkling eyes were laughing.

"Uh, Sara…"

She pulled into a parking space and pressed the button to turn off the engine. Shadows hid her eyes; she remained silent.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?"

She blinked, turned to look at him and gave him a blinding smile. He could see light reflecting in lines of gold in her eyes. She said, "No, you haven't, Gilbert."

This was what he needed—had been waiting for hours to hear her voice, filled with love, trust, understanding. His hands moved to cradle her head. "Say my name again." His voice was so low and husky that the words were almost inaudible. He drew his thumb across her bottom lip.

"Gilbert."

A single urgency poured through the palms of his hands. "Again, please."

"Oh, Gilbert," Sara whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek. "You are an amazing man—a most maddening man."

She kissed him with such fierceness that her teeth clicked against his. Her undisguised desire was his final undoing. She wanted him; it was all that mattered in this moment. A part of him wanted to take time to relish their lovemaking but he seemed powerless to halt their headlong rush as they tumbled from the car and made their way to her door, inside her apartment, and to privacy.

Sara had made a beautiful and intimate bedroom for them. The room was small—almost wall-to-wall with her wide bed—yet she had managed to add another small table on his "side" of the bed. She had made space for his personal belongings in a bathroom the size of a small closet when his condo had a huge bathroom; his walk-in closet had space for everything hanging in hers. But they managed—somehow—they were learning to live with each other, even if sleeping separately was involved.

Her fingers played with his shirt. He kissed her—lips, eyes, nose, throat—as he slid his knee upward between her legs.

"I can feel your heat through my pants," he muttered.

Sara put her lips to his chest and said something, her words unintelligible but the meaning was unmistakable.

It was in her bed, several hours after very satisfying sex, when he had an epiphany—that sudden leap of understanding as to why Sara left his bed. He almost laughed out loud. He reached an arm toward his sleeping partner, stopping short of closing his hand over her arm. She would wake if he touched her.

He settled his hand a fraction of an inch away from hers and relaxed against his pillow. His epiphany caused a sudden awareness of other things around him. His pillow was one of several on the bed—the one under his head was firm to the touch but yielded to the pressure of his head. He glanced at Sara. Her face was barely visible from her sleeping position on her stomach, a soft pillow under her head, another one crimped under her arm.

No wonder she preferred his sofa or her own bed to his. His bed felt like the back of a covered wagon compared to this one. He had two old, well-used pillows on his bed compared to the variety on Sara's bed. And the size—this was his epiphany—Sara's bed was wide, a king-size bed, while his was the old standard "double". He needed a new bed—no, he corrected—they needed a new bed. His thoughts caused a quiet chuckle.

Fingers touched his. "What's so funny?" Sara's voice was fuzzy with sleep.

He rolled to his side. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Her head lifted, dark curls framed her face. She smiled. "After the past two days, it's good to hear you laugh—even in sleep."

"Sorry."

Without warning, she launched herself across the short space that separated them. She threw her arms around him and gave him a brief, exuberant hug.

The bed sheet lifted lightly before floating around them. Grissom was suddenly enveloped by the warm, tantalizing fragrance of Sara Sidle. A cocoon, he thought, had been created just for them.

He knew he wanted her. Now. He kissed her.

_(Part 2) _

Sara knew exactly what she was doing. Her mouth moved, deepening the kiss. Grissom groaned. His hands tightened gently on her face. A swirling warmth invaded her, pooled in her lower body and caused a rippling shiver from head to toe. She felt his hand slip to her neck, warm fingers caressed her.

Her fingers combed through his hair as an urgency infused her entire body.

"Gil."

His hand moved slowly down over the curve of her breast and tightened on her hip; Sara closed her eyes as she sank beneath another wave of pleasure. Her hands cradled his head as she buried her face into his hair. The heat and scent of him were intoxicating; she wanted more, all of him.

He pushed aside the sheet and stroked her bare skin; his lips were on her shoulder.

Suddenly, Sara froze.

Quickly, Grissom's eyes met hers, questioning silently.

Her hands, her fingers worked against his scalp, no longer a caress. Her eyes widened with alarm.

"What?" He asked.

As he said the word, she was scrambling to sit, reaching for the bedside lamp with an outstretched arm.

"What is going on?"

Sara's hand remained on his head but she remained at arm's length. "There is something crawling in your hair, Gil."

He had just been kissing her with great passion so it took several seconds for her words to register. His hand went to his head where hers rested.

"I hate bugs." She said as she slipped her hand from underneath his. She stared at her palm.

He started to shake his head but the look on Sara's face kept his hand on top of his head as he got out of bed. "Bathroom," he mumbled.

Sara followed. "I'm checking you for bugs—where were you today?"

"Same place you were."

"Sink," she pointed.

He raked his hand through his hair while bending over the sink. He felt Sara's hand on his back. A small eight-legged insect dropped into the sink.

"Ahhh—that's your bug," he said, amusement barely hidden. "A small tick—a black legged one, I think."

Sara's hand was gone from his back. He grinned as he watched her pull sheets from the bed while naked.

"I can't stand ticks!"

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and checked his chest, his belly, turning to check his back finding his skin free of the dreaded tick. He shook his head again over the sink. Nothing.

"It was only one little tick—not even attached." He called out and heard some kind of mumbling response coming from Sara. He passed his hand over his thigh and into the curly bird's nest of pubic hair. A tick had the effect of lowering his—his spirits, he thought. His fingers stopped on a small lump near the base of his penis.

"Oh, shit," he muttered. Using his fingertips, he felt the small bubble against his skin. It moved. "Oh, shit." He knew he needed tweezers to grasp the tick. "Ouch," he whispered as he pulled several hairs out.

Bending over as far as possible, he found it impossible to see what he was after. It was this position—his butt exposed, his head almost between his legs—that met Sara when she stepped back into the bathroom.

Her first response was a giggle. "And—ahh—what does this mean?" She asked. A frown replaced the giggle. "You have a tick down there, don't you?"

Grissom straightened. "I think so—I can't see it." He pointed to the thatch of hair between his legs. "Here. And we need tweezers."

Sara crossed her arms, finding it difficult to suppress another giggle. She bit her lip. Her hand went inside her robe. "A tick…" She shivered. "I'd better not have one on me."

Grissom laughed. "You were at the same place—probably dropped from a tree." His grin became one of smug teasing. "I'll do a tick check on you after you remove this one." He pointed downward again.

A grimace crossed Sara's face; the corner of her mouth dipped. "A tick—in your…in your man-bush and you want me to remove it?" Her voice emphasized the "me". She turned and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with yellow cleaning gloves and tweezers.

"You're wearing gloves? It's just a bug—a little bug." His fingers disappeared in his hairy groin.

Sara snapped on the gloves. "Stand still, please." Getting on her knees, she said "No funny business—and I want you to remember this for a long time. I hate bugs!" She parted curly hair with her fingers until she found the attached tick, swollen with blood. "Ugh—gross." Her fingers held the tweezers. "There's going to be hair loss."

"Ouch!" Grissom flinched.

Sara's face was so close he could feel her breath on his skin. Her fingers brushed against him causing an immediate reaction. She giggled.

"Down boy," she said as she patted his penis with her hand. "You've still got a tick attached—you need a trim, dear, or I'm going to cause a lot of pain!"

"Just remove the tick, please." He shifted from one foot to another.

She opened a small drawer and found scissors. "Just a little trim of the thicket down here—so I can see what I'm doing!"

For several minutes, she worked with the scissors and tweezers, making little noises and sighs that should have irritated Grissom except that his erection was causing him to think about other things. Her fingers, even in gloves, were extremely arousing; her touch was no longer tentative, but caressing; her breath erotic against his skin.

He thought she was taking a long time to remove a small tick. "What are you doing?"

"Checking you for ticks."

He watched the top of her head. Suddenly, she kissed him, her lips sending a shock of surprise up his spine. The gloves were gone when he felt her hands on his thighs, stroking his bare skin.

He groaned, finally managing to stammer "Bed, baby, not here."

She pulled away and stood, her dark eyes glittered with amusement. "No sheets on the bed." Her lips pressed together as she stepped away so the mirror reflected his full frame.

Grissom's eyes went from her face to the mirror. Seconds passed as he took in his reflection—a few more seconds passed before he began to laugh. Clipped in the center of his hairy pubic triangle was a lopsided, cursive "S".

Sara slipped her arms around his chest. "Mine," she whispered. Her robe parted for skin-to-skin contact. Desire throbbed in her voice.

He put one hand on her sex. She pulsed gently against him. His thumb rubbed gently against the small bud until she quivered in response. He braced her against the counter's edge and guided his erection to her moist entrance. She went very still as he thrust heavily into her. He wanted to go slowly, experience and provide pleasure, but his willpower was slipping away, he discovered. In the grip of passion, he cradled her butt and plunged.

Sara gasped; her body went rigid. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

"Sara." It was passion, desire, pleasure in a breath of air. He began to move while she clung to him, her legs tightened around his. His thoughts mixed—he wanted to move slowly; he wanted to push himself until he was consumed by the heat burning between them.

He did not have to wait, or slow, as Sara twisted and lifted with mounting eagerness. Grissom closed his eyes as a delighted sound of satisfaction came from her. She convulsed, tiny spasms kneading his engorged flesh. As she seemed to turn to sweet, warm liquid in his hands, he pumped and spilled himself into her welcoming body.

Grissom was dimly aware of things being knocked to the floor, but he ignored the sounds and lost himself in a whirlpool of unconscious thought.

Sara floated gently down out of a world of pure sensation and found herself sitting on the edge of her bathroom counter. Grissom was between her legs, still somewhat embedded within her body.

"Gil," Sara stirred languidly against his shoulder. "We need sheets on the bed, dear."

_A/N: Another chapter soon! Lots of things happening in our world._


	4. Chapter 4

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 4**

_Pain and Passion_

As he smoothed a new comforter over the bed, Grissom did not want to think about the last time he has shopped for a bed—his mother had been with him. Today he was the one who had left Sara sleeping—in her bed—to meet the delivery of a new king-size bed at his condo. He had also purchased new sheets, new pillows, and a new bedspread.

His hand wiped his face as he surveyed his work. It looked nothing like Sara's bedroom but this was his place. His place—not for the first time he thought about suggesting a move, but somehow he knew she would reject his proposal of joining their belongings. As much as he hated to admit, both of them needed time and space to grow into a couple.

The phone buzzed; he answered knowing the caller before he checked.

"Hey," he said, his voice unusually soft.

"You left me."

Warmth spread throughout his body with her words. "I'll bring dinner—Chinese." He knew she stretched by the quiet hum in her voice. "Just stay right where you are—don't move."

She giggled. "Hurry."

Of course Sara moved. She brushed her teeth, changed from a t-shirt to a short silky gold-colored gown, which matched her painted fingernail, and searched her underwear drawer for matching panties. Once Grissom learned she would wear sexy, and flashy colors, he had purchased a dozen panties for her, but finding none that matched, she left herself bare. She knew he would love the look of her naked butt underneath the short gown. They had been so exhausted when they had gotten in she had showered and found Grissom sound asleep. She joined him in bed and followed him in minutes, expecting him to be there when she woke. She glanced at the time while lighting candles. Chinese food would be a perfect finish for their activities.

Straightening the bedcovers, she heard the lock click and knew Grissom had arrived. She grabbed her robe and covered the short negligee, smiling as she did so. A few months ago she would never have worn something like this. She tied the pink sash and left the bedroom.

Instantly, amusement hovered at the edge of Grissom's mouth. He raised his eyebrow. "And what does this mean?"

He could read her mind. She smiled. "Food can wait."

His want for her swept through him in a wave. Quickly, the hot food went in the refrigerator and he went to her.

"Some things are more interesting than food," he said softly. He touched her lips with his; his hand cradled the back of her head gently lifting her face as he kissed her throat.

Would she always have this effect on him, he wondered. One moment his thoughts were focused on surprising her, the next he could think of nothing but the bone-deep satisfaction of having her in his arms. And he was growing accustomed to the effects of passion, he thought. Not yet understanding Sara Sidle—he knew the mystery of that quest would take him years.

Sara said his name, "Gilbert," she drew it out in a long breath. "We should hurry."

"We have time." He raised his head long enough to lose himself for an instant in the melting promise of her eyes. "Not as much as I wish." He chuckled. "There is never enough time."

Somehow her robe had opened and her hands were around his neck. His need turned into a tidal wave that flooded his senses. She was beautiful.

"Why is it," he said against her mouth, "that I cannot seem to get enough of you?"

For her answer, Sara began unbuttoning his shirt and in a moment he was bare to the waist. Her fingers brushed and fumbled with his pants as they kissed. He drew a breath to steady himself and pushed the robe from her shoulders. Her body shimmered in the gold diaphanous fabric.

Her finger touched the corner of his mouth. "When you look at me in that way, you make me feel beautiful."

"You are beautiful."

Their fingers intertwined and he led her into the bedroom where he took a few seconds to push his pants to the floor. He groaned as he lowered his head to kiss the curve of one rounded breast; an edge of lace tickled his chin as his mouth moved.

"Dear Sara, I can not wait."

Her knee came to his naked groin. Very deliberately he parted her thighs. She made a small sound when she realized how open she was to his gaze. Her hand reached out in an effort to cover herself but he caught her hand with his.

"I want to see you." He whispered as he placed his palm against the warm, pink flesh covered with soft curls. She shivered; her foot arched in response to his caress.

He leaned forward to inhale the exotic fragrance of her body. He parted the soft folds to reveal the tiny bud of her sex. Gently, he bent his head and kissed her intimately with what he hoped showed his exquisite enjoyment and approval.

Sara's fingers tightened in his hair. "Gilbert."

He ignored his name on her breathless lips and used his tongue to arouse her core, not pausing until she was wet and trembling with desire. When her nails dug into his scalp, when her hips lifted with want, he rose and quickly settled himself on top of her. He licked the taste of her from his lips as he plunged into the tight, hot, pulsating core of her body.

She convulsed, drawing him deeply inside her—so deep he thought they might become one. He began to move, aware of the sensation of extreme pleasure as he retreated. It seemed to take forever to withdraw to her entrance. An involuntary groan escaped from his lungs as he stroked, pushing himself until he was once again sunk to the hilt. A thought came to him in those seconds—she was made for him. Not just with a brain to match his, but with a body made to fit his.

Sara's muscles shuddered, quivered, drew him in as she climaxed. Seconds later, everything within him went rigid as his orgasm roared through him, a tsunami caused by the desire and passion of the woman he held.

"Gil?" Sara stirred, languorously, a dream-like quality to her voice. "It's late."

"I know." Reluctantly he shifted position to untangle himself from the bed sheets and her body. "Shower and I'll warm our food." He sat up and his feet touched the floor. "It's raining—looks like we're in for an all-nighter."

Sara sat up and fumbled to bring the crushed gown to cover her body. Grissom grinned. She gave up and lifted it over her head. Her body was rose colored from their encounter. He kept smiling as he pulled her to him.

"You are beautiful, you know." His head nodded toward the bathroom. "Get in there before we are both late."

Halfway across the room, she stopped and turned. "Where have you been? Earlier?" She asked.

Grissom smirked. "A secret—a surprise. For later." He reached for his pants as she disappeared into the bathroom.

By the time food was heated and plated, Sara was sliding onto a stool saying something about being hungry. Grissom looked up. She was truly beautiful in blue; he needed to remember that as he reached to touch her chin.

"I like your shirt," he whispered before he kissed her.

Hours later, the traumatic events surrounding a murder in a mental hospital would bring him to a crushing realization—he could not keep her safe. His moment of forgetfulness had caused injury, more psychological than physical, to the one person who held his heart.

Later, too harshly after all they had been through, he said, "You're coming home with me." Sara's face jerked up to meet his. "Please," he added.

"Of course," she nodded; quietly agreeing, confused by his abrupt tone and the fact they were in the layout room—and not alone. She glanced to her right. Sophia was at the end of the table but if she heard, she gave no indication.

Grissom's face flushed as he realized his blunder. Jamming his hands inside his pockets, he said, "It's time to go—all of us. We haven't slept in—in—I don't even know what time it is."

Sophia sighed. "I don't know if I can sleep—yes, I can. I'm going home, take a long shower, and curl up with my puppy." She carefully gathered everything in front of her into a neat stack. "This has been a traumatic shift, hasn't it?"

She stood to leave; Sara remained where she was.

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. Sophia had no knowledge of all of the events in the hospital; her eyes had not seen the terror in Sara's face as she felt the death grip of a mad man. "It has been." He waved a hand in the direction of the door. "Leave—Catherine will cover for us for twenty-four hours. We all need to sleep."

Sara's eyes met his as Sophia left the room. For the first time in hours, he recognized a glimmer of amusement in her soft brown eyes.

"Let's go home, Sara. Together. To my place—you and me. Alone—for twenty-four hours." He smiled and winked.

Fifteen minutes later, he placed hands over her eyes and guided her into his bedroom. "Keep your eyes closed for one minute."

Sara felt movement, heard sounds, and knew he was quickly removing his clothing. She giggled.

"Okay, open your eyes," Grissom said, sounding a distance from her.

The first thing she saw was the huge king-size bed, covered with a dark brown spread and pale blue sheets. Lying in the middle of the bed, she giggled—no—sprawled in a pose of a centerfold model was Gil Grissom. Naked, one knee angled, one leg stretched, his elbow bent to hold his head, and his penis growing into an erection as she laughed and crawled into the bed.

"Your surprise?" She questioned, nuzzling against him, feeling the warm heat emanating from his body.

His chuckle was at once soft, husky, sexy. "More room for you, dear. I'm tired of you leaving me after sex."

She kept her face buried against his shoulder. A bubbling giggle surfaced. "You don't have to sleep in the same bed to have sex—or to be romantic." She kissed him before pulling away. "And this is romantic—and sweet."

"Stay with me, Sara. All night—for twenty-four hours." His voice softened. "Stay—I won't suffocate you. I'll let you read with the light on." He kissed her shoulder. "And I promise not to snore."

Her giggles turned to laughter. "Oh, Gil," she whispered as she wiggled a pillow underneath her head. "Nice, very nice."

"Me or the bed?" Grissom rolled to wrap arms around her.

The sounds of their joy filled the room as she pulled off her shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks for reading! More to come!_

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 5**

_Love Runs Through_

"Move in with me."

Sara lifted her eyes from the pizza she was sprinkling with cheese. Shredded cheese slipped through her fingers to form a small white pyramid on tomato sauce.

"What did you say?" She asked, trying desperately to keep her voice steady.

"Move in with me." Grissom chuckled. "My kitchen is bigger."

She knew he had hinted about this for weeks. Almost without conscious thought her head moved side-to-side. "I—I don't know…"

Grissom sighed. He had tried subtle suggestions for weeks—ever since Nick's kidnapping—an unspoken routine had developed. They were with each other after every shift. When one had a day off, the day was spent preparing and getting ready for the one who was working. On the rare occasion they both had the same time off, they were together the entire time.

"I'm serious," he said. "I've got plenty of room."

Sara's head was shaking before he finished his first words. "I don't think I'm ready," she said as she began to spread the cheese with her hand; her eyes dropped. "This is difficult for me, Gil. To explain, I mean." Her hand stopped moving; difficult did not begin to explain her reasons, "I—I—this is the first place I've had that's mine. I always had roommates before coming to Vegas." She chewed her lip while Grissom waited, silently. She glanced around her apartment, her eyes taking in her things—books, artwork, her furniture—things she had purchased because she wanted them.

"We would move everything—there is room." He watched her as indefinable emotion changed her face; anguish, he thought, at the thought of moving. Much later, he would realize he was wrong.

He had no desire to bring unhappy memories, something about her past, into their time. "Only when you are ready, honey. My offer is there." His hand gently covered hers. "I'm selfish. I want you all the time."

Her smile recovered, she leaned against his shoulder. "We are together—almost all the time." Softly, she laughed. "Except for the rare occasion when my supervisor assigns me a trash run!"

A week later, an enormous billboard caught Grissom's eye. He turned a corner and found the advertised address. Idly curious for months, he had watched the development grow into a business and residential center, but today, sudden intuition caused him to stop and read the advertising notice plastered near the sidewalk; he retraced his route to another address. Sara wasn't refusing to move; she did not want to live in someone else's space—as a child that had been her life. As an adult, as the woman he loved, he should—he could—provide her with a real home—one she could decorate as she wanted. She could toss everything in his house except the new bed; he chuckled at his realization.

The realtor was more than delighted to have a returning customer and with a short conversation had provided Grissom with information he sought.

"Do you have an idea of what you want? Moving out to the suburbs? A house? Gated community?

Grissom asked about the building project he had just left.

"Great place—the commercial area has really taken off. Retail shops, several restaurants, a book store just steps away from the residential section." The man went into great detail describing housing units as absolutely magnificent—including two-car garages, off street parking, laundry rooms in each unit.

"You will not find any better placed condos in Vegas—not for the price. And, if you get in early, you can personalize—walls where you want, flooring, counter tops—selected by you." The realtor rummaged through a stack of files and unfolded a large layout of the condominium property. "Here's more information. Do you still work for the county? A policeman—or something—lab—are you still in the crime lab? Look how close this is, but private, very quiet. And these units are a real bargain in today's real estate boom."

Grissom raised his hand in an effort to stop the realtor's sales pitch. "Someone else will be making design decisions," he said. He leaned forward and pointed to four units. "Can you show these four units tomorrow afternoon?"

"Sure—sure—about your current place?"

Grissom stood. "After we look at the new ones, we can talk about listing it." He paused before extending his hand. "And the less talking we do tomorrow, the better this will go."

Back in his vehicle, he raked a hand across his face. "What have I done?" he asked, no one hearing his question. Sweat beaded along his hairline even as cool air hit his skin. Sara would not agree to move in with him and he had just made an appointment to show her four new condos. After her comments at a crime scene about bed-sharing and romance, he wasn't sure he would ever convince her to actually move her possessions into a shared household.

He heaved a noisy sigh. Maybe he could sweetened this process; he had thought about buying a gift for Sara since—since weeks ago, before Nick was kidnapped—but he had never gotten around to doing it. He entered traffic with a destination.

While he seldom made a jewelry purchase, he knew a little about high-end stores due to work and robbery histories. He traveled away from the Strip and new malls to a small store in one of the oldest strip malls in Vegas. Most of his jewelry shopping had been for his mother who liked to wear pins and he had found this place when looking for a specific type of pin—brooch, he had learned—for her.

The woman greeted him as a well-known, familiar customer, even though he had not walked in the door in a year. Her familiarity caused Grissom to think the place had face recognition equipment secreted in the back room.

"Dr. Grissom! It's good to see you again."

He raised two fingers as a hello. The woman stepped in the direction of a large glass display of pins. He said: "Not a brooch, today. I'm looking for—I think I'm looking for a necklace. Yes, a necklace."

Smoothly, the lady moved to another display case. "Certainly. Anything specific? Silver, gold, with a stone or charm?"

The presentation was dazzling; a rainbow of color, chains, loops, beads, pendants, double and triple strands, every conceivable miniature item he could think of was delicately placed in orderly rows. Overwhelming—he did not know where to begin.

The woman recognized his confusion. "Tell me something about your lady—what does she wear?"

"Simple," he said. "Nothing flashy—she's very—very…" he struggled for words to describe Sara, "she's natural, effortlessly beautiful, unpretentious."

The lady made a confirming sound and moved along the case. "Silver can be sterling silver or a color—as in platinum. We have a few titanium necklaces—very expensive but lightweight." She placed three small chains on a display board and showed him the differences in silver, platinum, and titanium. "Do you think she has any allergies? Sometimes the nickel in sterling can cause skin irritation, but if she wears it over her clothing, it usually isn't a problem."

Grissom fingered the strands. "I want her to wear it against her skin," he smiled. "She has a beautiful neck." His fingers went to his own neck. "Something for here." He placed his hand along his upper chest.

He looked at pearls and hearts, medallions, teardrops and twisted wire—dozens of necklaces came out of the display case and into his hand. After an hour he had narrowed his selection to a dozen. He kept returning to one—a simple chain with a hollow square at its center—light as a feather in his palm.

"I think this one will be perfect."

The patient woman who had greeted him and shown necklace after necklace lifted the silver chain from his hand. "This one is titanium—expensive because jewelers are just beginning to use it and expensive because it will last forever." She pointed to several similar items. "Sterling silver, even platinum would be less expensive."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. The signal worked; the price was written on a piece of paper and turned so he could see it. He picked up the sterling silver, then the platinum. "I want this one." He indicated the titanium. "I think she'll wear it for a long time."

After Grissom wrote a favorite poem on a white card, the necklace was carefully wrapped in a small box, tied with black and white ribbon, and placed in a black gift bag with the store's name embossed into a lower corner.

"Thank you, Dr. Grissom." The lady smiled. "We look forward to seeing you again. And if the lady has any questions, if you decide on something else, if she isn't delighted, come back."

At home, he placed the package in a drawer, checked his refrigerator for food, and called his girlfriend. The appellation always caused him to grin and made Sara laugh. A few seconds into the call, another call beeped; he glanced at the caller.

"Got to go, honey. Work calls. See you soon."

A shoot-out with drug smugglers, an officer shot, three others dead, bullets sprayed along several city blocks filled hours that turned into a double shift, and to make it worse, the dead officer was killed by another officer. Much later, standing in an alley, watching Sara toss a gun onto the clay-tiled roof, he realized now much he loved her—being with her in bed was a very pleasing physical sensation, being with her at work seemed to double his fascination. His thoughts fled as questions were asked; Sara tossed a second gun which slid into her hands just as he had predicted.

She was beautiful, he thought. He wanted to reach out and touch her, like a rare butterfly, just to hold her for a few seconds, but like a rare butterfly, he knew if he touched her, here with others watching, she would turn to powder. He grimaced when he thought of the appointment he had made; they would not begin a search today. He glanced at Sara and found she was watching him, a frown puckered her brow.

In a rare moment of shared sentiment, he smiled and winked. Sara's face relaxed into a smile.

Hours later, after a long and exhausting investigation, Grissom slowed and stopped his vehicle next to Sara's car. As she slid into his vehicle, he said "You can park in my garage—every morning." At her reaction, he changed his statement. "Every other morning."

She buckled the seatbelt. "You know we need a little time away from each other—a bit of…" she paused. "Breathing room."

Her eyes looked into his, and neither of them moved. His eyes were a caress, neither of them made any move to touch each other.

"I'm glad you're here," she said softly.

Suddenly, he looked like a boy with his ruffled mass of hair and eyes the color of a summer sky, and a smile that played with the edges of his mouth. Her hand went to his arm. "Are you very tired?"

He laughed, remembering how exhausted he had been as he pulled into her apartment complex and stopped beside her car. "No more than you. There is food at the condo."

"Good." She grew serious. "It shouldn't, but it hurts so much when its one of us, doesn't it."

Grissom knew what she meant. He also remembered the blaze of annoyance he had seen when Sophia was in his office. Sara was his protector; his thought caused him to chuckle. Perhaps she was more green-eyed monster than protector.

"Sara, you know I love you." He said as he drove the short distance to his home.

"I know, Gil" she said softly. "You know I love you in ways I can never put into words."

Their hands met and fingers intertwined, releasing only when he had parked in the garage and needed to remove the key. When that happened, he reached for her, closing his arms around her as he had wanted to do in the alley. Here, in the dim glow given off by the overhead light, he kissed her with the passion that had been pent up for hours. As his hands tightened and he felt her arms, hands and fingers against his body, he knew she was no rare butterfly but an exceptionally rare woman.

Her kisses were as hungry as his and it was some time before they seemed to remember where they were and forced themselves apart and smiled at each other.

"We should eat," Sara whispered, her finger traced his bottom lip.

"I need a shower."

Sara laughed. "So do I—quick one."

"You first," Grissom said, "and I'll fix food."

It took all their strength to pull away from each other again and walk up the steps to his door. It took another effort for Grissom to let her shower, but he kept his word and took out cheese and sauce and tortillas for the fastest food he could prepare. While the tortillas heated, he retrieved his gift from its drawer and placed it near the table, hiding it behind a book. His thoughts went back to his shopping trip—his double shopping trip—which seemed like days ago. He still had to convince Sara of his housing idea.

She read the poem first—a simple one written by Pablo Neruda about love—which left her speechless. The silver-colored necklace was an instant winner; he saw it in her eyes as she opened the box and again when he fastened its hook and the chain and its square settled against her skin.

"Oh, Grissom—what have you done? It's so light—I don't even know its there." Her fingers touched the delicate chain and smooth square. Her eyes radiated softness. "Why? What's the occasion—have we had a significant anniversary?"

"No anniversary—and every day with you is significant." He smiled; she liked it.

Her hands moved from the necklace to him. His hands played with her hair as he kissed her again and again. Whispering as he kissed her neck, he said: "We've showered, we've eaten; we are exhausted."

As an answer, Sara deepened the kiss and his hands began to explore, wrapping arms around her so he could find the curve of her breasts. She moaned softly at his touch and in a single instant she forgot about the exhausting hours they had spent at work. She pulled him slowly toward the bedroom and within minutes their bodies were entwined, tangled in sheets while still fully dressed and rediscovering the promise of passion.

Without saying another word, she peeled his shirt away from him; his jeans were next. He tossed her thin tee-shirt high into the air and it floated somewhere on the floor as they began making love.

Grissom had made plans for long passionate love-making with the beautiful woman in his bed. But her breathless words and soft gasps constituted the most erotic song Grissom had ever heard. He could not get enough of her against his body, his mouth. He strung kisses along her neck and shoulder, around the new necklace, gradually working his mouth to one rounded breast while his hand found the other.

All of his intentions exploded in a flash when her hips lifted and her legs separated to cradle him between her thighs. The heat between them seemed to weld them together as he pushed gently past the tight feminine muscles of her core. She closed around him. The last of his self-control disintegrated.

Hoarsely, he whispered, "Tell me that you love me."

"I love you, I love you." She clung to him as her fingers clenched against his back and arched her body into his. She shuddered and cried out.

Grissom heard his blood roar in his veins as he plunged into Sara's welcoming body. Her own convulsions had not ceased when shudders that stole his breath racked him with euphoria and left him damp and weary but wonderfully alive.

Deep, exhausted sleep came to both as they curled into each other beneath the bed covers; neither seemed to notice the massive expanse of vacant bed on either side of their bodies.

_A/N: Now review! Thanks so much!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Time to review, all of you who are reading this one! We want to hear what you think..._

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 6**

_Seeking space_

Lady Heather. Vegas has a small town atmosphere and invariably paths cross again and again. Especially in law enforcement. Especially when the worst kept secret in town is the business of sex. Especially when Gil Grissom had always taken a special interest in Heather Kessler. And everyone in the lab knew it.

Sara folded her legs together and put her head against the back of her sofa. She wanted to cry but had decided she was too irritated to cry when she actually wanted to stomp and scream. Instead she pulled a pillow into both hands and squeezed it tightly against her chest.

Two days—it had been two days since Grissom left her apartment and while she had seen him at work, it had been as if they were ships passing in the night, blinking signal lights across a dark ocean. And she had no idea where he was until she heard Hodges and a patrolman talking about an in-coming call mentioning Heather Kessler, a beating victim, and Grissom. Hodges was such a gossip—he knew everything, or thought he did, before anyone else. So while she did not know for certain, she had a good idea who Grissom was with and where he was. She hated when people gossiped about him—even Jim Brass belonged to those spreading rumors. She had gripped the pillow so tightly her hands trembled.

She had stopped at his place before returning to her apartment; he had not been at either place. For a while, she had kept herself busy with laundry and preparing a vegetable casserole. But hours later, she had not heard from him—and real sleep was impossible. She stared at the ceiling until dots appeared before her eyes; he could call—he could have left a message, sent a text. She sighed and blinked her eyes.

"If wishes were horses then beggars would ride," she said to herself. She was close to tears; sniffing and pinching her nose she attempted to stop the overflow of weepy sniffles. And in that second she heard a soft knock, followed by a key clicking in the lock.

She hated herself the moment she stood up knowing she would appear anxious, worried, or angry when he opened the door.

The door eased open and, with a somewhat shy look, Grissom smiled at her from five feet away. "Hey, honey. I thought you would be asleep." He stepped toward her in an attempt to kiss her, but she did not give him the chance as she turned her back.

"Do you want food? Hungry?" She asked, moving into the small kitchen.

He shrugged out of his jacket. "Yeah—no, something to drink—water is fine." When she opened the refrigerator, he walked to the sofa and sat down. He knew something was wrong when he had seen her face; he knew she was upset, he knew it involved his absence, and he knew she had heard about Heather Kessler.

When Sara handed him a cold beer bottle, he knew he had fallen in love with the perfect woman and he knew he was still learning how to live with her.

She sat on the chair instead of sitting beside him, pulling her knees to her chin; her arms wrapped around her legs. She had not been like this in months—a year. Suddenly, he realized a year had passed since the day he had come to her apartment after Ecklie had sent her home. He had forgotten until he saw the pain in her face. He wanted to apologize, say he was working, but truth was he had been with an acquaintance—no, a friend—who needed a friend. He took a long gulp from the bottle before placing it on the table in front of him. He watched as Sara's fingers rubbed her eyes; the unusual silence was so intense he could feel tension radiating from her body.

He stretched his hand across the space that separated them and wrapped his hand over hers. "You are the most wonderful thing that's happened to me for a very long time—perhaps ever." Her hand slipped into his. "Please forgive me for being a fool."

She looked at him, biting her lip, fighting back tears. He watched as she blinked several times and struggled to breathe normally. Finally, she said:

"I've been so worried—about you."

He gave a slight tug with his hand as he lifted his chin. She understood his signal and moved from the chair. He took her face in his hand and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, yielding, and slightly moist. His eyes closed as he savored the taste and feel of her. Without doubt he realized he could kiss her for hours and never get tired.

Eventually Sara drew back, took a deep breath, and said: "I don't know—I've got a lot to learn, haven't I?"

"And I about you." He kissed her again. "I am sorry—I should have called."

"Yes." She placed her head against his shoulder.

His hand held hers; his thumb stroked her palm. "You know who I was with?" He asked.

Sara nodded her head. "Everyone did."

"Sara," his hand went to her face. "She needed a friend. Someone who would not judge her."

Her head nodded against his hand.

"She's in a bad state. I'm not sure what's going to happen to her—I had to call it in…"

Sara interrupted. "I thought someone had been beaten at her place—more than usual or—or whatever they do there."

With her in his arms, occasionally shifting for intimacy, he related details only he would know—of finding a distraught and dangerously incoherent Heather trying, and almost succeeding, to beat Sneller to death, his attempts to calm Heather while dealing with a wounded Sneller, and calling for an ambulance. "Which meant the sheriff sent a dozen deputies and Heather was hysterical—refused to let go even when the EMTs arrived and called another ambulance. She did not want anyone to see her."

He stopped his narrative, wiping a hand across his face. "It's rough to see someone self-destruct like that, someone who is so—so composed."

Sara held his hands in hers. "She must be mad with grief."

"I think that's an accurate description." He said softly as he kissed her temple.

"Come to bed—unless you're hungry."

"Did you cook?" His lips nuzzled her hairline.

"I did. It will keep."

They stayed on the sofa for several quiet minutes.

"Sara—you know I love you."

"Yes," she whispered as she turned to face him. Gracefully, she stood. "Let's sleep, and then we'll eat."

Exhaustion finally caught both of them once they stretched out on the bed, and in a few minutes, Grissom was asleep. It took longer for Sara. She was oddly happy—to have him home, sitting and talking about Heather Kessler while his arms were securely around her own body. She snuggled against his sleeping body, placing her hand on his chest so she could feel the beat of his heart.

It was nearly six-thirty when they woke up and Sara work first and was looking down at him when he stirred. She smiled when his eyes opened. She saw his face make a grimace and said "Are you stiff?" then giggled at her double meaning. He always woke with a hard-on.

When he rolled onto his stomach, she began to massage his back. He lay on the bed with a happy grin on his face, his eyes closed.

Sara's hands moved from his shoulders to his neck. He had smooth skin like a baby, she thought, but she would never tell him that. "Did you sleep well?" She asked.

"I did—and I dreamed of you—good dreams. We were swimming in warm water," he laughed. "No, we were floating." He rolled and looked at her, taking her hands in his. "We should spend a day in the sun." He smiled. "Floating." He kissed her until she pulled him above her, and continued as he rediscovered how her body fit to his.

Grissom raised himself and slipped hands beneath Sara's shirt, pushing it over her head. He placed his lips against her skin, in the valley between her breasts, and slowly he caressed her with his mouth and his hands. A long sigh that was his name broke from Sara as pleasure radiated through her.

As his hands moved over her body, Sara managed to slip her hand between their bodies and slid her fingers and palm along his hardness, listening to the sound that broke from his throat, loving the feeling of knowing she could do that to him. Then Grissom's fingers were between her legs, wet from her, and everything opened to him. Their mouths found each other; Sara felt she had been parched with thirst and could not drink enough.

"Sara," Grissom said, and the passionate sound of her name held them, shutting out everything else as Sara opened herself and Grissom thrust deep inside her.

"Better," she murmured. He moved again. "Oh…much better," her voice was as soft as the early evening breeze that came through the open window in the next room. They moved together in rhythm their bodies never forgot, so closely entwined they made one shadow on the wall as the night came to their bed.

Later, Sara came awake with Grissom watching her. "Did I sleep long?"

"No," he said as he slipped an arm around her and brought her to his chest. "Thirty minutes or so—we've got plenty of time."

She closed her eyes again and placed small kisses on his chest, the hollow of his throat. "I like this," she said as she reached his chin and kissed it.

"My chin?"

"Your dimple." Her finger traced the line on his chin.

He kissed her smiling lips. "I'll be right back." He slid from the bed and walked naked into the next room. Sara watched him, compact, muscular, surprisingly graceful. She stretched in bed, remembering the weight of his body on hers, the look in his eyes, the sounds he made while making love. She loved him with a passion that astonished her with its intensity. She smiled as he returned.

"Yes?" he asked, sliding back into bed beside her.

"I love you."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders; she noticed papers in his hand. Chuckling, he said: "I love you, darling, although I must admit I'm thinking about food right now."

Sara laughed. "Poor thing, you haven't eaten since—when? I have a casserole—it won't take long."

"Wait," he stopped her from getting out of bed. "I've got something to talk about." He unfolded the papers. "I've put my condo up for sale and apparently its worth much more than I paid for it—and it's in an excellent neighborhood." He glanced at her face to find her staring open-mouthed at figures on the page. "The realtor thinks I can get this price—quickly."

She took the papers from his hand.

"So I need another place to live—unless—I might be able to move in with my girlfriend…" His smile grew into a mischievous grin. "Or we could look for a new place—together—something bigger. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A yard, maybe?"

"Gil, this is a lot of money!"

"Yes, it is. It will make a good down-payment on anything you can find in Vegas—well, anything reasonable. Not a penthouse on the Strip."

She rolled her eyes. "I can't do this."

"We'll live here then." He grinned as he leaned back against her pillows. "I'm beginning to feel rooted here. I like this room." He waved his hand. "I like the wall-to-wall bed thing we have going on."

Wide-eyed, she turned to him. "What about your things? All your stuff? It won't fit in here! You—you," she begin to laugh, "Is this a new way to get me to move in with you?"

Grissom said, "No, this is the way I get to live with you—we'll find a place for us—our place, make a home for us. It won't be mine nor yours but ours." He took the papers from her. "What about it?"

She sighed, nervous, hesitant. "You know I can't remember having a real home—even as a kid, we moved around so much, never lived in a place long enough to make it a home." Pausing, her fingers played with the edge of the bed sheet. "When I came here and got my own place—this apartment—it felt so good to have my own things." She made a sound that should have been a laugh but came out as a strangled cough. Her eyes met his. "Until I bought this bed I had never slept on a new bed—never—I thought I was in heaven, being able to stretch out and smell the newness of a bed." Her eyes dropped. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

He leaned forward and took her in his arms. "No, it is not pathetic. I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to ever tell anyone." She nodded as he continued. "The new bed I got was the first one I had ever purchased—my old one came from my mother's house." He laughed as she smiled. "That's why I want to do this. We enjoy each other—being together." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "We like to cook together—and eat. We need a bigger place—out place."

She surprised him. By the next day, she agreed to talk with a realtor. And surprised him again when she did not want a house with a yard.

"We work at night, Gil, and sleep during the day. Why do we need a yard?"

Several weeks later, after a murder at a wedding, Grissom arranged the schedule so they had a night off together and an appointment with a realtor.

"I've watched this place," he explained as he pulled into one of the newest developments in Las Vegas. "It's like a mini-city for shoppers," he turned a corner. "On this side are condominiums—very private—with two-car garages for some of the units. We would not be far from work."

Sara smiled at his sales pitch. He had mentioned this place so often she had driven to it several days before, parked her car and walked around the shopping area. She liked the walkways and the aged appearance of the new buildings, and then she found not one but two small parks. She had also found the residential area—parking garages on the ground floor, plenty of windows on second and third floors. She liked the exterior.

And she liked the interior. The realtor showed two finished models and then showed three unfinished ones—or spaces with no walls to divide the area into rooms.

"It would be similar to building a house, except the outside is finished. You design what you want in the space," the realtor explained.

Grissom motioned to the realtor to stand aside while Sara walked through the vacant space. She looked out of each window. She opened a door and the two of them explored the garage area. Returning, she paced the length and width of the area. Each time she walked up the temporary steps between the two levels of the space, her smile broadened.

"We could do what we wanted with the space, right?" She finally asked.

"As long as it meets city code."

She smiled at Grissom. "I think this will suit us perfectly. Are you sure you want to spend your money?"

He did not hesitate when he replied, "Yes!"

_A/N: **Review**-we see the numbers of readers and some of you are being very lazy-hit the "review" -it takes 60 seconds. The more reviews, the more chapters coming! And to all of you who are so great to send us comments-thank you! Love hearing from you!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 7**

_Butterflies, books, and biscuits_

When Jim Brass had been severely wounded, Grissom realized two things: life's best and worst moments were unpredictable and he wanted to live a very long time. As Brass improved, he and Sara agreed on an unfinished corner condo unit and, as the realtor had predicted, his unit sold for a price that staggered his mind.

Now, thanks to one of the fastest growing housing markets in the country, Gil Grissom had more money in his bank account than he had ever seen. Even after making a substantial down payment on the new place, and paying a contractor for a custom-designed interior, there was money sitting in his account.

Of course, he had practically forced Sara to spend money, and while she was not cheap, she was—economical, reusing their combined furniture, bargaining with salesmen to get lower prices on everything from light fixtures to flooring. She and the contractor made plans to use recycled materials in some form—he had backed away from the details when she said she wanted to surprise him. And she worked tirelessly, especially when his condo sold and most of his belongings had to be packed and stored. They were living—if not a dream, then a life neither of them could have imagined a few years earlier.

He was surprised, and amazed, as he watched Sara develop ideas for their home—a place for both of them. She spent hours unpacking boxes he had stuck in closets and pulled out things he had forgotten he owned. They laughed when Sara found old college textbooks.

"We should put these out, Gil!" She laughed as she paged through the books. "How many students keep their original books!"

Another box contained framed leaf specimens. "My father's," Grissom explained.

"They're beautiful," Sara said as she ran her finger over the protecting glass. "Is it his handwriting?"

Grissom leaned over and took one of the frames from her. "I guess it is—I don't remember his handwriting."

She placed the framed leaves in a growing stack that included his beetles and butterflies.

She found box after box of artwork. "Why has none of this ever been displayed at your place?" She asked as she unwrapped another abstract pottery form. "And where did you get this stuff?" She held up a mask.

"You know we should wait until we move in to unpack these boxes. You're bringing more back from the storage unit every day. Pretty soon we won't be able to find the kitchen."

She laughed and rose from the floor taking one of the small objects with her. He watched her slender body flowing in long, smooth lines. She reminded him of a dancer, or a gazelle, he thought, so beautiful to watch, wary, quick to flee. He followed her, standing at the bedroom door watching while she rearranged things beside the bed.

He thought he knew more about her now than he had a month ago, or six months ago, but still far less than he had expected. Living with Sara was fascinating, frustrating, and enthralling all at once. She turned to find him leaning against the door frame.

"What are you adding to your collection?" He asked.

"One of your fossils—a tiny ring of stone," she said, the lilt of her voice carrying over the music playing in the living room.

He stepped to her side. "Crinoid—a distant cousin of the starfish." He lifted it from her palm. "It's probably three hundred million years old."

"How did you get it?" She asked as he placed it in her hand.

"My mother. She gave me a rosary that was a string of them—called St. Cuthbert's beads."

Her voice teased, "Only your mother would find a rosary made from fossils."

Grissom shook his head. "Sir Walter Scott's poem, _Marmion_, tells of these being made into rosaries."

She held it between her fingers. "It's incredible, isn't it? Something so small survives this long. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a collection of things like this? Then when something bad happens we could take them out and remember some things are perfect and don't disappear. You'd think, if something this small can survive this long and this perfectly, love affairs and marriages could, too." After her words, she flushed, giving him a quick smile. She seldom expressed her thoughts in such a way.

Grissom placed his hand under her chin. "The crinoid isn't perfect—it died."

She laughed. "I guess I shouldn't envy it."

He held her face between his hands. "There is nothing, no one you should envy. You outshine everyone, dear."

Her hands covered his. "You don't mind living here for a while. Or me going through your things?" She asked.

Shaking his head, laughing, he said "Look to your heart's content, dear. You've found things I've forgotten—and seeing your reaction puts it in a completely different light!"

She smiled as happiness surged through her. Her hand went to his cheek. "I think we should use your things—put them out in the new place, not stuffed into boxes."

"I've turned that over to you. I'm certain I'll be pleased with whatever you decide." He kissed her. He had placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to meet her lips, but after the kiss, he pulled her to his chest in a hug. "You are happy, Sara." A statement—he knew she slept well, she ate well, she left work after her shift; she had found a diversion from the grind of work and it was him.

Several weeks later, as they juggled work, maintaining a very professional demeanor most of the time, and overseeing the finishing details of the new condo, he arrived at the apartment, now crowded with those things Sara had taken from storage. He knew she was at the condo—and he had promised to stay away while a surprise was being finished.

He reached into his pocket and touched a small box. He smiled as he stepped around several boxes and made his way to the bedroom. The bed was made, but he folded back covers and placed the black velvet box on her pillow. After he set up music he liked—Maria Callas singing _Bellini_, he came back and crawled into his side—he smiled at the thought of "his side". They slept in the middle of the bed.

He dosed, his papers sliding to the floor.

Sara found him, sleeping, files scattered around him; the lamp light made his hair glow with burnished silver curls. She had heard his music playing before she opened the door; smiling as she removed the key, she realized she knew the singer. Trying not to disturb him, she gathered the papers as quietly and quickly as possible, but, as usual, he woke.

"I smell Sara," he mumbled, lifting his hand to touch her before he opened his eyes. She sat beside him.

She laughed, softly, as she stoked his hair in long, slow movements. "I think I like you best like this." Her hand moved to his bare chest. "With nothing on, and next best in your old jeans and your favorite blue shirt."

He grinned. This woman was going to be the death of him yet—no, he quickly changed his thoughts. She was going to make sure he lived for a very long time. She wasn't trying to change him, not in obvious ways, but by some magic she worked, he was coming home from work and eating better, and shaping his life around her. She had become his life, his center, and also its boundary, what he wanted.

He reached for the box on her pillow. "Your house warming gift."

Surprise played across her face. "What's this?" Her fingers lifted the top. "Oh, Gil," she whispered. "Why?" She took the necklace from the box and held the delicate gold chain with her fingertips. A dozen droplets of gold sparkled and flashed, reflecting light as she slowly turned it. She gazed at it for a long moment, then looked at him. "Why?"

"Just because—for doing what you do."

Sara put her arms around him and kissed him. "Thank you—how can I…"

"You do every day," he replied.

He helped to fasten it around her neck and then kissed her along the line the chain made along her neck and chest.

They had learned to be leisurely in their lovemaking. After their first months together, when it seemed they could never satisfy their hunger, they began to come together more slowly. They talked and laughed as they caressed and passion grew, tightly encircled in each other's arms. Often they slept, legs twined, lips touching and then came awake slowly to the small, fluttering movements of their bodies. They held each other for a long quiet time, drifting in silent closeness until desire flickered and grew, like a small ripple far out in the ocean that gathers force and becomes a thundering wave. As desire grew, they moved even slower, learning to hold back, to find new pleasure by drawing arousal out like a long ripple until passion overtook them and they rode its crest together.

When a puzzling miniature of a crime scene was found, neither one could have envisioned the long term consequences it would have. Other crimes crowded into their lives—Catherine called Sara when she thought she was raped. Lindsay was kidnapped and found but before anyone could sigh with relief, Sam Braun was shot and killed in front of Catherine. Another crime riddled week scattered the team across town, and Sara wore her new necklace for the first time to a garage spattered with the blood of two men.

Finally, their new home was ready. Elated and excited, they could barely hide their happiness at work. And when Ecklie made a comment that seemed to acknowledge their secret relationship, Sara and Grissom waited for the fallout. Nothing happened.

"He doesn't know," Sara stated later. "If he did, he would have said something—Mr. By-the-Rules Ecklie."

Grissom took the empty box in her hands. "He doesn't. He knows I have your back that's all—and you have mine." He held up long quills. "I've had these for years—are you really going to put these out?"

She smiled. "Yep. That's why we have all these shelves." His dubious look caused her to laugh. "I have a plan!"

Her instinct for decorating surprised him. He had been amazed at what she had done with simple concrete and brick walls. He was speechless when she 'unveiled' recycled shelves and work space placed along one long wall. She did not want a large table for the dining area. "Not yet anyway," she said. Her small table sat between the kitchen and the shelves; his table went into the office.

Framed butterflies and bugs and his dad's leaf collection went up on the walls. His boxes of stuff became art objects when she arranged them on shelves. The things from her apartment fit seamlessly with his—eclectic, she called it. Their own style was diverse and distinct, she explained, not some trade name tagged by a designer.

They found enjoyment in their new neighborhood—new enough to attract tourists so they could remain anonymous yet with the feel of a small town. Excellent shopping was an easy walk from their door and their garage meant they did not worry about prying eyes or being seen by someone who would recognize their vehicles. They had been together for so long, a set of rules for "outside" behavior had developed—never explain why they were together, never hold hands or show affection outside of the house. And it worked. No one seemed to notice when they arrived within minutes of each other, or when they were the first, or last, to leave the lab, or when their 'off' days coincided more often than not.

One of those normal not-quite-a-crime scene cases led to a major change in how they lived. Sara went out with Dave to collect an old lady who had been found dead in her yard. Not quite the normal way to die, the deputy said when he called it in. Not with pruning shears sticking in one's eye.

The house had not seen new paint for years but the yard was filled with flowers in dozens of containers and plants along the narrow path brushed against their legs as they followed the deputy.

"My guess is she fell—maybe had a heart attack and fell on the shears. But I called it in requesting one of you guys, just in case. And there's a dog. I guess we need to call animal control."

The dog lay next to its owner; its heartbreaking brown eyes following Sara and Dave as they worked, but never moving from its place.

"He hasn't moved since I got here," the deputy said.

Sara found dog biscuits in the house before animal control arrived but the dog refused to accept one. She placed one between his front feet. When two animal control officers lifted the dog to place him into a carrier, his whine caused everyone to turn away from the corpse.

Dave said: "Poor dog—he's going to miss his owner."

Sara reached a tentative hand toward the dog. The dog reacted by nuzzling her hand. She wrapped both hands around his face. "Poor thing—do you think he'll get adopted soon?" She asked.

Eyes downcast, neither answered until one slowly shook his head.

"He's a beautiful gentle dog! Why not?" Sara's eyes flashed at the dreadful thought.

"Ahhh—Sara" one of the men said. He had known her for years. "People don't want big dogs, not full-grown old lady dogs. They want puppies or little dogs—not some big brown sad dog who's going to mourn for months."

Hours later, Grissom could not believe he was driving south on Mojave Road with a smiling Sara sitting beside him and a big slobbering brown dog sitting in the back seat.

"Hank," he said.

Sara giggled and reached between the seats to pet the dog. "He's cute. We're just foster parents."

"Thirty dogs and you have to take the one named Hank!"

"This one lost his parent. He needs a place to mourn his loss—a quiet place." She leaned across the console and kissed his cheek. "Thanks."

"You are welcome."

She turned back to petting the dog. "Poor Mrs. Williams trained him well. Look at how he rides in the back seat!"

"Yeah, he probably listens to country music, too." Grissom mumbled. He knew this foster care story was a fabrication invented to get people to take a dog home. He glanced at Sara who was crooning over the dog; she was happy.

It would be two weeks before another elderly woman died, not by accident as Mrs. Williams had, and a second miniature crime scene would be found.

_A/N: One for your weekend! Thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing. More to come! (This season is a very sad one, don't you think!)_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N A long chapter to start the week-enjoy! _

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 8**

_Separation _

Just as Grissom had predicted, the foster dog arrangement turned into a permanent home for one large boxer dog named Hank within a week. He had not had a dog in decades; Sara had cared for an old dog in San Francisco for several years, and both had forgotten the companionship offered by a dog—affection for a dog biscuit.

The well-behaved Hank had his bed and he slept there. Only when they stayed in bed too long would he appear at the bedside sticking his cool nose between covers until he found human flesh. Sara found surprising pleasure in caring for the dog—and Grissom found enjoyment in watching them, because the dog's initial attachment was to Sara.

"It's because he had a female as his first mother," she explained as she sat on the floor, playing with a toy for Hank. "He will love you in a few weeks."

Suddenly time became a cascading cataclysm of one catastrophe after another. Greg was beaten—an intense, personal attack with tragic potential on many levels. Grissom worked, determined to find the source of such violence, but in the end, only one person would be charged and Greg's actions would drag into weeks of litigation. While Greg suffered physically, Sara's own anger and anguish and grief seem to diminish when she cared for Hank.

Eventually, Grissom got home; he found both asleep—in their bed.

He crawled between the sheets, sliding an arm around Sara's waist. She made a soft moan and patted the dog's head.

The second model of a crime scene was discovered, alarming with its implication of a multiple murderer, terrifying with its detailed planning, and worrisome to Grissom that there seemed to be no connections between the two cases.

Yet Grissom and Sara felt safe in their cocoon, protected within walls of their making, sheltered from those heinous forces outside of their home. They laughed, teased, played, and considered themselves fortunate in ways beyond counting. Grissom continued to leave his shoes near the sofa, his pants on the floor, his shirt on a chair while Sara was meticulously organized. Hank learned to trust his male owner—this trust coming on the heels of several hamburgers snuck into the house while Sara was away. They were happy.

From an unexpected source, Grissom received an invitation to conduct a seminar. "Four weeks, I wish I could take it," he said after reading the letter for the third, fourth or fifth time.

Sara looked up from where she sat. "You should, Gil. You talk about teaching—how you no longer have anyone to teach." She glanced at him, and seeing the frown puckering his forehead, she tried teasing, adding, "Except for Greg. I think he may be a little obtuse."

Uncharacteristically, the frown stayed in place. "Greg—I don't know what to do about him." His hand rubbed across his eyes. "I've tried to think of a way to get him out of this and there is nothing—damn, it—nothing I can do."

Sara moved to stand behind him; her hand massaging his neck as she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his hair, quickly. "I'm sorry. What can I do?"

He shook his head and folded the letter. Sara took the letter from his hand.

"Maybe—maybe you should ask," she said. Grissom looked at her. "Ask for leave, teach the seminar." She knew he was worried about Greg which meant he was worried about everyone else. The migraine the week before had been unusually severe. The mysterious crime scene models sat across the room; he was not sleeping well either.

"Yeah, you think so?" He asked. Sara recognized an inflection in his voice that had been missing for weeks. The frown returned. "What about you? How can we both leave?"

She smiled, gave his neck one more knead with her hand, and walked back to the chair. "Silly, I have Hank. He'll keep me company."

Truth was Sara missed him before he ever left. She missed him as he packed and his pants disappeared from the floor. She missed him as they made love knowing it would be a long month before he returned. Before they left for work, his bag packed and going to the lab so he could leave from there, she clung to him and tried to hide her tears. They had already made plans—emails every day, a phone call between her work schedule and his teaching—promising it would be enough. They both knew it was a lie.

As Grissom stood in the doorway of the locker room saying goodbye, Sara hoped he could not see how near she was to tears, but he could feel them. He wanted to pull her close to him and tell her how much he loved her, how much he would miss her every day. Instead, they hardly spoke as he said goodbye.

From the airport he called. "We can meet somewhere in the middle," he suggested.

It made Sara laugh. "No, you go, immerse yourself in academia for thirty days—twenty-nine days." She said, "Go teach everything you know about the Walden swamp mosquito—and come back to me!"

"I love you."

She heard his flight being called. "Wherever you are, Gil, remember I'll love you the rest of my life." She heard his soft chuckle. "Don't be winking at any of those pretty college girls!"

Eleven hours later, exhausted, worried, but excited Grissom drove his rental car away from the airport. He was disconcerted when, gathering his bags, he had found himself looking for his crime scene kit. Leaving it behind was the first confirmation of his decision to separate himself from his long career—for a month. He drove east, purposefully avoiding interstate highways, meandering to Williamstown and the college almost aimlessly through its winter landscape.

The town was a tangled thread of streets, roofs glittering in the afternoon sun. He began to recognize landmarks from his map and a gently curve in the street brought him to the campus. Grissom thought any new arriving visitor would recognize the mixture of peaceful appeal of architecture and landscape. He followed his directions until he found a pair of cottages connected by garages, one open and empty. He drove into the space; this would be where he would spend his nights away from Sara.

Expecting no one to greet him, he opened the door and stepped inside to a warm, bookish, a bit musty, space of a small kitchen. He pulled back curtains and light streamed into the room. Opening more curtains, he discovered his living space, a large wood desk, several high backed chairs, a sofa covered with a frayed quilt. The small bedroom had two beds, dorm style from decades ago, he thought. Both beds were made—clean sheets, blankets; his hand pressed the pillow and realized these were new. Retracing his steps, he explored the kitchen and found evidence he was expected. An unopened bag of coffee, a box of tea, several cans of food staples were in a cabinet. The refrigerator contained more—juice, apples, butter, a six-pack of beer—and a note. He reached for the note when he heard footsteps at the door and a woman's figure framed against the screen door holding a cup in her hand.

"Hello! You've arrived!" She spoke with a trace of accent. Not waiting for an invitation, she entered the house. "My name is Evelyn Sims—your neighbor," she extended her hand. "Dr. Mitchell said to expect you—he brought the groceries. And I brought you a hot toddy. It's colder here than in Las Vegas, I imagine."

His welcome to the college followed a similar path; everyone he met expected him. Old mixed with new as he familiarized himself with the campus, the faculty, and the different way of life on a small campus. College—classes, textbooks, instruction, students—had not changed much in thirty years since his graduation. The way of instruction—using a laptop for classroom lectures, communicating with on-line students—was different and his first few days were spent learning as a novice but by the time twenty students showed up for his first lecture, he was competent enough to stand in front of them and introduce the subject.

In five minutes, he was talking about insects from around the world to wide-eyed, open mouthed twenty-year olds. Talking about the sex life of bugs had gotten the same reaction nearly three decades when he had been a graduate assistant substituting for his graduate professor. It worked again to captivate his audience as he finished up with a few comments about mosquitoes. They would return the next day, and the days afterward, filling his days with questions and curiosity of the young.

One afternoon, wandering near the college's forest, he found a cocoon, rolled tightly against a twig of a hardwood tree, wintering until the sun warmed its casing. Carefully studying its shape and color, he was certain he knew the species—Actias luna—size was an indicator. He opened his pocket knife and clipped the twig. A luna moth, one of the largest moths in North America, beautiful with its pale luminous color, would amaze a certain pair of brown eyes in Vegas when it opened. He grinned as he turned the stick; perhaps she would also understand the symbolism he had difficulty putting into words—she was his magical place and with her his life was transformed.

They talked every day, sent emails, laughed at shared stories; Sara was often vague about work saying she did not want him to be worried with what he could not explain or solve from a thousand miles away. She listened to him talk about teaching and research and began to recognize a forgotten passion in the man she loved.

In a small antique shop, he found an unusual string of red stones and held them up to the light.

"Red amber," the saleswoman said. "the real stuff. These came on a chain, which broke so I put jewelry wire in place of the old chain. Can you see how each one is different? I keep thinking I'll do something else with them."

"I'll take it just as it is," Grissom smiled. Sara loved simple necklaces and he liked the tiny insects in each stone. Without a word, he would announce their relationship; for him, it was better than a diamond on her finger—which he knew she would never wear. And it was not exactly a public proclamation, more a very private link to their bond.

As swiftly as he had left Vegas, he arrived, earlier than expected by working half the night to get grades posted and changing his flight connection at the last minute. The taxi left him at the lab and Sara was gone. Not gone, but away from the lab looking for evidence in an illegal garbage dump so he picked up his case and headed out to help Warrick. And the night went from collecting evidence to the search for a rogue cop—Keppler's tragic history and life had ended in Vegas.

It was mid-day before he parked his vehicle beside Sara's car in their garage. Opening the door into the kitchen, the familiar smells and appearance of his home pushed the time he had spent in Massachusetts into deep recesses of his brain. That time no longer mattered in this space as a shiny brown animal came to him, dancing around his legs as he bent to pet Hank. A minute later, his eyes noticed another pair of legs coming to him.

He stood and reached for her. In a quick, smooth movement, her hand passed in front of Hank's face; her finger pointed to the dog's bed, and instantly the dog obeyed her unspoken signal. When his fingertips touched her, it was to untie the ribbons across her breasts. His mouth met hers with a fierce longing that had been growing inside him for days. Her arms wrapped around his neck and as she pressed against him, he felt a storm rising within her even as thunder rolled though his own veins.

Sara tightened her hold on him; her hips nestled intimately against his thighs as he explored the secret, scented, erotic place at the nape of her neck. It worked as he remembered; she shivered.

Words formed in his throat, some sound was made. Sara broke away from him and placed her fingertips against his lips.

"Not now," she whispered. "Later, tell me everything."

"A shower," he managed to croak. "I need a shower, honey."

Laughter welled up inside her. "Quickly, then."

He tipped her face and gazed into soft, brown expecting eyes and at that moment he dismissed his plans to make slow, deliberate love to her. "Yes," was the only word he could say before he literally ran to the bathroom where she had already unpacked his things, a fresh towel lay beside his toiletries. His shower set a record for speed.

The bedroom was ready for intimacy. The mid-day sun had been concealed; only one dim lamp cast a shadow on the high ceiling. And Sara—she was bending across the bed, folding back the coverlet. The golden color of the robe she wore seemed to radiate its own light as it moved with her body.

Some instinct told her he was standing in the doorway. "You've finished," she laughed as she walked toward him. She kissed him with unabashed enthusiasm as her hands removed the towel from around his waist. Her nose buried into his beard as another laugh formed. "This will take getting used to." Her lips nibbled against it. "It's softer than I expected."

Grissom grinned into her hair. And the next thing he knew, they were shrouded in pale blue sheets; her gown was gone and her warm skin seemed to melting into his. Dear God, he thought, this is what I've missed. He looked at Sara and found a sweet yearning in her expression that made him catch his breath.

His hands gathered her to him and they kissed until he freed her mouth to breathe and moved along her neck to the rosy nipples of her breasts. His whole body clenched as he kissed and tasted until she made an eager moan. He moved downward, using his hands, fingers, and lips to trace a tantalizing path to the triangle of dark curls that shielded her sex. He groaned as he bent his head and placed a kiss on the inside of her thigh. Her scent was intoxicating, and as he closed his hand around her, cupping her, softly running his thumb along her clit, he felt her turn to liquid against his palm and thought nothing had ever thrilled him as much as this intimate act.

Sara's nails sunk into his shoulders as shivers rippled through her.

"Gil, please." He heard her words. "I need you."

He stroked her, gently, and felt her soften and open for him as he slipped one, then two fingers inside her body. With her moisture he tenderly massaged the dainty pearl that throbbed above her entrance. She moaned.

"Open your eyes, Sara. Look at me."

A passion-dazed gasp came from her. "I can't wait."

He felt the beginning ripples of her orgasm, quickly fitted himself to her and pushed his erection into her damp welcoming passage as he came face-to-face with her. Her muscles seemed to pull him into her with such force he had to wait a few seconds to ease himself slowly out. The sensation was an indescribable, exquisite pleasure as she trembled and convulsed beneath him.

"Tell me you missed me," he whispered as he tried to slow his movements.

"I love you," her fingers raked through his hair. She lifted her hips as he pulled away and her tight muscles closed around him. "Don't hold back—not this time. Let me have all of you." Her words caused the last of his self-control to disintegrate.

He swam into her sea, plunging deeper, allowing himself to fall into euphoria. It stole his breath and left him damp, weary, sated, and alive.

A fragment of a dream dissolved in a heartbeat when Sara opened her eyes and found two beautiful blue ones watching her. She smiled. "I was dreaming of you."

"I have a gift for you," Grissom said, his words barely a whisper.

She did not think he had gotten out of bed, but he was on the opposite side of her body from the position she last remembered. She raised her head enough to see the clock. "It's an hour before I'm supposed to be at work. Where did the time go?"

He gave her a devilish grin. "I think we made up for a month of separation."

She pulled her mouth into a grimace. "My boss will never understand why I'm late." Her fingers caressed his bearded chin.

"I have something for you—a gift."

She sensed that he was trying to tell her something. He pulled a small bag from underneath his pillow and held it to her. She pushed up and opened the bag, touching smooth stones before pulling the necklace out of its bag. The dark red stones cascaded into her palm.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Hold it up—to the light."

As she did as told, she frowned. "Is this amber? Colored red?"

He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "I think it is very old, true red amber—Baltic amber. Look closely—each piece is more of a bubble than a stone and each one contains something—an inclusion is the official term."

"Like an insect?" She asked, her eyes wide as she studied a small stone. Her eyes met his. "I saw Jurassic Park—read the book, too."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said with a laugh.

Sara let the beads drape through her fingers. "Why have you given this to me?"

He picked them up and placed them around her neck. "Because I love you—because you saved me from myself, Sara." He fumbled with the clasp for a second. "I'll love you for the rest of my life and beyond."

Sara wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her with blissful enthusiasm. The lab would wait; the world would wait. The stack of mail and paperwork on his desk would wait. She had an inkling he had just marked her as belonging to him should anyone lift their eyes from a microscope and notice what was around her neck.

_A/N: Thanks for reading-now send a review-this story will probably be 15-16 chapters. Thanks so much!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Another chapter-beginning a sad, uncertain time for Sara and Grissom. Because he loves her, Grissom continues to shop for Sara! Thanks for reading (and your reviews!)_

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 9**

_Regular, Super, Ultra_

When Grissom opened the large cardboard box on his desk and saw the meticulous scale model, he felt a physical punch to his gut. The killing had not ended with Ernie Dell. The multiple deaths of high school students and mass murders of show girls followed quickly, taking a toll on everyone on the team.

Grissom shaved his beard—or Sara shaved it for him in one of those delightful pleasing moments shared between two people who are so much in love they are blissfully unaware of events shaping their futures. For a few hours, the appearance of Heather Kessler as a victim disturbed the private joy shared by the two lovers, but a sheepish grin, an explanation from Grissom and an exaggerated eye roll from Sara stopped any potential petulant words between the two.

They were happy, indescribably so if any one had noticed. But they were careful, or so they thought. None of their team seemed to notice when Sara did small things for Grissom, or when he showed up with dinner or to help her on a routine investigation. Later, everyone realized there had been one person watching Sara when Grissom caressed her arm, when he wiped a tear, when he placed his arm around her.

Before tragedy struck with a horrifying vengeance, Sara and Grissom spent hours together, reading, talking, walking, and always with Hank. They drove away from Vegas, not sure what they were looking for, yet feeling it permissible simply to enjoy themselves. They found isolated places and played with Hank. They found magical patches of desert flowers between rocks, saw wild burros bounding from bush to bush along their path, and discovered mysterious tracks of coyotes. Transparent insects whirred past their faces, and in one marshy place they came across dozens of newly-shining young frogs. A very confused Hank stood, rooted to one spot as the tiny frogs jumped in every direction. Sara laughed until tears rolled down her face at the perplexed dog.

Disturbing events did affect them, but they pushed these aside and they made plans. Something different, they promised. Grissom, his own miniature scale model of his office completed, was spending too much time searching for a serial killer. Sara worried about Greg, she said, when she was actually worried about Grissom. He had not been sleeping well; and neither had she. Grissom overheard conversations between Sara and her mother, about her mother, and knew Laura Sidle's health condition was deteriorating.

They needed something different, he said, outside in the sun. They had a perfect day for it—a day with blue skies and a golden sun but not unbearable heat. They took a picnic of fresh bread and cheese and tomatoes, apples and water. Hank stayed with a new dog sitter. They took nothing to remind them of work.

The drive to the dam was easy, familiar, and beautiful this time of year with rampant wildflowers blooming everywhere. They had not expected the flowers and Sara said it was a good omen for the day's adventure. A turn from the major highway zigzagged into the canyon below the dam; several signs directed them to their first destination. When they stopped in a small gravel lot, Grissom was out of the car, jamming his straw hat on his head and pulling the picnic cooler from the back seat before Sara had cut the engine.

The old man coming out of the small building shouted Grissom's name. "Got what you asked for! Won't be many out today—to early for most."

Minutes later, the two were pushed into the flowing Colorado River in a bright red canoe with the man shouting "Be sure you reach the pick up point before nightfall! Don't want to have to send out a search party!" And as they paddled away, his last shout came, "Remember, cell phones don't work!"

At first, Sara helped with paddling, but Grissom, having done this before, had more skill, and seated in the back, with the aid of moving water, his paddle acted as rudder. Once she stopped paddling, he headed the canoe to a stretch of flat rocks so she could rearrange cushions, move the food, and reposition herself so she could face him with one hand on solid ground. They were back in the middle of the river in minutes.

Grissom watched as her hand trailed in the water from her position. Layers of rock stretched high above them and the sky became a narrow strip of cerulean blue. All along there were fissures and crevices splashed with hanging green vines, clumps of yellow or pink flowers, and an occasional precariously placed tree trying to grow among boulders.

They talked about the dam, the new bridge, the river, Lake Mead, trash that had collected in small whirls, but never mentioned work. After a long silence, Sara caught Grissom's eyes, blue and full of life under the brim of his hat. He winked at her. She was startled to think it didn't just seem that way; for him it was.

"Perfect," she said, and leaned back against the seat, spread both arms wide, and dipped her fingers into the cool water.

At one point the river grew wide and a pebble beach had formed along the water. Grassy weeds grew nearer the sheer rise of the canyon and huge rocks were scattered around like blocks from a toy box.

"Lunch time," Grissom announced and he managed to paddle the canoe into the gravel landing with enough force that Sara stepped over the side without getting her shoes wet. He made no attempt to keep his feet dry, jumping into knee-deep water and pulling the canoe out of the river. "Don't want it to float off without us."

Understanding his reasoning, Sara looped a rope over a large boulder to anchor the small boat. She knew the river was a powerful muscle underneath its surface. "It's like a big snake, isn't it?"

Puzzled, Grissom looked at her.

"The river—how it moves, against the cliffs, moving around rocks, pushing against submerged stones like a giant serpent."

He pointed his thumb toward the cliff face. "I got to pee."

She laughed. "A male snake!" She laughed again as he disappeared behind a rock the size of an Airstream trailer. She spread an old bed sheet over the rocks, stacked their life jackets to use as cushions and opened the cooler containing lunch.

"Where are you?" She called out.

The sound of crunching gravel underfoot caused her to look up as Grissom rounded the large boulder. "Come quick," he said, beckoning with his arm. "Hurry! Bighorn sheep everywhere!"

Quickly, she followed to an area covered with all kinds of smooth stones in colors from deepest jet black to pale, chalky white and then stepped around the sharp point of an outcropping of rock, they saw a dozen sheep drinking from the river's edge.

She gasped at the sight as Grissom's whisper to be quiet filled her ear. The animals made no attempt to move, or even appeared to hear the arrival of their watchers. They stood quietly for a while, watching the sheep take long drinks. A young one snorted and butted his head against a large rock, kicked his back legs and strutted along the edge of the river.

"A young bull," Grissom whispered. He pointed to the obvious indicator of sex. When Sara giggled, three of the sheep looked up, found their watchers to be harmless, and went back to drinking.

Lazily, they ate their picnic lunch and floated back into the river. Eleven miles passed quickly and they arrived at the take-out beach an hour before the old man arrived in his beat-up truck. Riding back, Sara sat in the center of the bench seat and leaned her head against Grissom's shoulder. She woke up when the truck stopped in the gravel lot where they had parked the car. The hours spent on the river would fade and diminish in memory because of what was to come; weeks later, they would remember the day as an interlude of happiness.

Grissom's frustration over the miniature serial killer consumed him. Going over the list of Dell foster children, trying to bring some kind of sense, some connection with any of the names, he was interrupted by Hodges. Shortly, Brass called with the name and address of another Dell foster only to be found dead in his bathroom. Near the body was a small doll, the size and shape used by the miniature killer. As he left Sara at the scene, he called her "dear" in front of Dave Phillips.

Grissom knew the killer's behavior had changed; he could not know how nor would he ever have predicted the coming events. By the time he asked Sara to pick up dinner, they were so near to the identity of this serial killer, he was almost celebrating. At some point he had become an enthusiastic consumer of a certain cornbread and bean casserole prepared and served at one of the small vegetarian restaurants near the lab; she said she would get it for dinner.

Quickly, a fingerprint was identified—Natalie Davis worked on the lab's cleaning crew. Then he found the red car with a small doll underneath it—the doll dressed in a detailed reproduction of Sara's clothing—in miniature. He knew how the killer had changed. The shock he had felt upon finding Barbara Tallman's miniature was a pat to his back compared to the sucker punch he felt now.

...Sara almost died; Grissom knew no other victim would have survived.

He stayed by her hospital bed for three days while she was hydrated, x-rayed, scanned, prodded, stuck, and patched up. Her skin had been stripped, scraped, cut, and blistered. Her body was hideously bruised and broken in places both obvious and hidden.

"I have to go home, Gil," she begged early one morning. "I'll die if I stay here another day."

He took Sara home before noon, signing a dozen forms and making more promises for her care. He was nervous and once home, Hank was jumpy and edgy until he could curl in bed with her. All Sara wanted to do was sleep. Grissom had to wake her to get medications and fluids into her body.

Gently, he pushed her hair away from her face and coaxed her awake. "You need to drink something, honey."

She groaned, painfully, and tried to turn, handicapped by the binding weight on her arm. Her groan became a cry.

"You are okay—it's your arm. Let me help." Grissom slipped an arm behind her back and gently lifted her.

Tears filled her eyes. He had been told to expect this.

She whispered, "I'm sorry." Tears flooded her eyes and ran down her face.

"It's okay, Sara. You're going to be fine." He placed a glass of water to her lips. He felt her go limp before she took a third sip.

She tried to move, groaning again as she did. "I'm sorry, Gil." She struggled against his hand.

"Shhhh—honey. You are home now—in our bed."

Her head nodded. "I—I've messed up the bed—my period started." Her words came with more tears.

"Oh" he understood what she was trying to tell him. With extreme tenderness, he helped her from bed and into the bathroom. When she tried to remove her pants, he said: "Let me."

She stood obediently as he wiped traces of blood from her thighs, and then, with a clean warm washcloth, he bathed the rest of her body. Sara watched his strong hands as the cloth moved down her arm and across her breasts, then turned so he could wash her back. She remained where she was while he got fresh clothing and returned to the bathroom.

"Now, what next?" He asked as quietly as if he were speaking to a baby. "Where do you keep—those—your tampons?"

"Bottom drawer," she whispered, and for the first time in days, she almost laughed at the man who had been painfully shy about her monthly cycle. But when he pulled an empty box from the drawer, she started crying again.

"It's okay, baby—I'll go buy another box. It won't take but a few minutes." He was flustered for a minute. "Let's get you—bed, back to bed. I'll change the sheets when I get back."

She nodded. "I'm sorry—I have some in my kit—in the bottom."

Her kit was at the lab. He sighed. "What about a pad—do you have any thing like that?" He hated himself for not knowing what she needed.

Shaking her head, she leaned against him. "I'll be okay. Could you get an old towel or something—for the bed?"

He folded another sheet over the bed and helped her to lie down. "I'll be right back, quick—stay in bed, okay."

"Thanks." Her eyes closed.

Grissom hurried, getting to the store in record time, reading aisle signs until he found the right one. A state of panic stopped his steps. Both sides of the aisle, stacked higher than his head, shelves were filled, box upon box of what was labeled 'feminine hygiene products' caused him to blink—several times; his hand went to his face. He paced, found the tampon section—still overwhelmed, he tried to remember the color of the box. What he remembered was an empty cardboard box.

Words advertising the products swirled before his eyes. Scented, unscented, pearl, compact, leak-guard, form fit, sports, regular, super, super plus, ultra, in blue and yellow and pink boxes. He had no idea what those words meant for the products advertised. He lifted one box—super, he thought—did super mean size or something more in line with a dictionary meaning. And what did 'pearl' mean? He took another box from the shelf—regular with a flushable applicator.

"Hell," he whispered. Why had he not thought to call Catherine? He knew why—she would have insisted on coming to the house and right now, he did not want to talk to anyone. He snatched another box, a pink one, from the shelf. Two boxes would provide an option. Before he checked out, he picked up three bags of candy and two small containers of ice cream.

…Sara opened her eyes to the most beautiful man she had ever known. His hair was a mass of curls—more gray than a few months ago, she thought. Perhaps being with her had aged him. Sleeping he had the soft appearance of a child, his face relaxed for the first time in hours. She wanted to lift her hand to his face but the way her arm was wrapped prevented her from moving it in the right direction.

He had been so sweet and kind when he returned with two boxes of tampons, sponging her clean again, and opening the box of her preferred brand. She managed the rest of the process with one hand and actually walked around the house while he insisted on changing the bed sheets without help. Her eyes drifted closed and her last conscious act was to tuck her legs next to his.

In this way, the first of long strange days and nights began. Sara insisted on returning to work when Grissom did, and insisted she change to swing shift. When they were together, Grissom could almost believe the trauma of kidnapping had disappeared, but, at times, he knew there was hidden pain. He had found her in the bedroom, windows darkened because of a headache, she said. He could count on one finger her previous complaint of headache.

In bed, she met him with passion, fierce as his own, as she opened herself, stroked his hair and kissed him. As he held her, he thought of her as molten liquid moving through his fingers, as waves from the sea swirled around him. Waking after a deep sleep, he discovered her face against his shoulder, and his shirt wet from her tears.

"Sara," he whispered, but she gave no indication that she was awake or felt his caress.

A few days later, he discovered bees in the walls of a house and spent two more days setting up hives in a sheltered environment provided by local beekeepers. He was succeeding in convincing himself Sara was recovering, returning to her old self, and enjoying more sunshine. When she walked into the tent wearing a full-beekeeping outfit, he could not stop smiling, thinking she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He loved her more than life.

_A/N: Another chapter! Quickly! Now, review-some of you are reading and reviewing-thank you very much-that's our reward. Others are reading for free-so we request the favor of your review! Now-review! And another chapter will appear! _


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Another chapter for this week! As busy as our lives are, we managed the unthinkable-now it is your turn. We want reviews from the hundreds who are reading this story...don't be a free-reader. You can write 2,3,4 words, an entire paragraph!- takes 2 minutes out of your busy life._

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 10**

_Prelude to implosion_

Sara said "yes", enthusiastically, without hesitation. Her face, shielded by the netting, changed with her smile. He had thought for months how to approach the topic so, while not without previous thought, it sounded spontaneous. When she pulled the glove off, he knew it was the right moment—she had always hated bees but trust superseded her hate! Her response was another indication of their life together returning to its magical state. Natalie, the kidnapping, the hours spent in the desert, the days of recovery were behind them.

Happily, he searched the Internet for how to buy a ring. By the time he had read two paragraphs, he knew he needed to learn the difference in a fifty dollar ring and a one selling for thousands. Neither wore rings but he knew they would wear wedding bands. He was so engrossed in his search, Catherine's arrival at his door went unnoticed until she spoke.

Later, as he ate with Sara, he said, "We should tell our mother's first." He reached across and covered her hand with his. Her fingers laced with his.

"My mother is barely holding on, Gil. She won't remember—she won't know what I'm talking about."

"Sara," he sighed. "She might—she's going through a bad time right now. In a few weeks, she'll be better."

Sara's sigh was longer, poignant, as she said, "And your mother isn't going to be thrilled."

"She likes you!"

Sara smirked, one side of her mouth pulled downward, and then she laughed. "Maybe she will tolerate me—that's more than my own mother feels."

He changed the subject. "Wedding thoughts?"

Her eyebrows lifted an inch. "No wedding—we'll get married." She tightened her grip on his hand. "You know how I feel about weddings. Let's just get married."

She picked up her fork and pushed food around her plate. He brought her hand, still wearing a soft cast, to his lips and kissed her fingers. Her appetite had yet to return.

"We will do it the way you want—Elvis Chapel or courthouse?" He grinned, held up a spoon and asked, "Ice cream?"

"No to ice cream. Yes to courthouse." She smiled again yet fatigue she could not brush away clouded her eyes and ached her bones.

Grissom read her emotions. "Come on—you are going to bed." He pulled her to her feet and held her tightly against his chest.

A soft shaking sob broke from her lips. "I'm so tired, Gil."

"I know you are, honey." He half-walked, half carried her to the bedroom where, within minutes, she pretended to sleep while he drifted off, softly snoring.

…A serial killer, a cold case abduction and the FBI pulled him to New York City.

Sara could not sleep. Grissom had been gone for three days and she had worked steadily until she had maxed out on hours for the week. She wandered in the direction of the bed, rubbed her eyes and picked up the letter Grissom had given her before he left. She managed a smile. He always wrote such beautiful letters.

She looked at the letter, _"Dear Sara_," it said. He had written _"I'll be back quickly—before you miss me. Eat, sleep, play with Hank."_ He had written a short sonnet across the bottom of the page. She stretched out on the bed, holding the letter. She needed sleep—just one night of sleep. Her finger traced his _"Peace"_ signature; amazed after all this time the two of them still wrote notes, letters, to each other. She brought the letter to her nose and inhaled hoping to smell his fragrance, hoping it would help her sleep.

Sleep did not come. She turned on the television and stared at the ceiling until her body was numb. Her mind raced, exploded in one direction only to have another thought burst onto another before either could take form. The process was constant, and all about death—the ghosts of darkness pulled, sucked, dragged her into a yawning black hole.

She clawed back to light; safety, rescue came from one hand. She rolled in bed and reached for safety but the bed was empty. She groaned, struggled to get up, and to her feet. Hank watched as she pulled on shoes. She thought she might go crazy if she stayed inside.

"Let's go for a walk, buddy."

Hours later, Grissom found her on a park bench, the dog asleep at her feet. The sun was a slender dome on the eastern horizon. He had arrived from the airport to an empty house, Sara's phone ringing in the empty bedroom; panic drove him from room to room, and then, somewhat relieved, found the dog was missing. When he touched her shoulder, he realized from dew dampness on her shirt she had been outside for some time.

When she smiled at him, a tentative, confused expression seeking his approval, he felt an odd sensation in his chest. For the first time in years he thought a part of Sara might be slipping away from him. He patted Hank who had opened puzzled eyes, unsure of why he was not at home but suddenly happy to have his ears scratched.

Grissom sat down and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"You found me," Sara whispered.

"Yes, I did."

"Out there," her head lifted. "You didn't give up."

He realized what she meant. "No, I didn't give up. None of us did." He pulled her closer. "Nick actually found you. You were smart to take the mirror." A reiteration of what she already knew.

Air expelled from her lungs in a long, slow breath. "I don't remember Nick."

"He was there first."

She turned her face away from his. "I had not thought about my father in years, Gil. Until that night—Natalie's dad did not love her." A sob caused her to clench her fist against her mouth.

Grissom waited.

Choking back tears, she said, "He told me I was smart."

He pulled her head to his shoulder, keeping his hand on her hair. "I know he did."

Another sob came. "He left me, Gil. Just like Natalie until she found Ernie Dell. Just like me until I found you."

"Honey…" He wasn't sure how her thought processes were working.

She wiped her face. "I would kill anyone who took you from me."

"Sara…"

"I would. And that troubles me." Another deep sigh. "I've always blamed my crazy mother—but maybe there is more to it than that."

"What do you mean?"

Suddenly she shook her head, and in doing so, seemed to wake from a miasma wrapped dream. "I'm sorry, Gil." She smiled. "I've been here too long. Are you hungry? How was your trip? I'm sorry we were not at home." She kissed his cheek. "I've missed you." She kissed him again. "Was it all work?" Her voice lifted, brightened as she asked about his trip.

Grissom tried to hide his concern. She had been this way for days—her mood clouded in confusion, uncertainty, and tears, and suddenly changing to her normal state but, listening closely, he detected a hint of atypical euphoria. He knew it signaled an underlying problem, but it was not a crisis. He hoped; she was getting better.

Quickly, he grinned. "Mostly work. However, I managed one stop." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box.

Sara's breathing stopped. Everyone would recognize the small blue box with the embossed name across its center.

"Gil, we never talked about this."

"Yes we did—open it!" He smiled so intensely his face hurt before she lifted the top.

"Oh," a quiet breath of air formed the word. "Gilbert."

Two richly hued gold bands rested in a velvet ring slot. She lifted one and turned it between finger and thumb.

"It's beautiful." She said, letting the sun reflect on its surface before pushing it back into the box. Tears glittered her eyes. "You know I love you."

"Yes, I do."

She closed the box, put it in his hand and placed her head back on his shoulder. "I'm so mixed up, Gil."

"No, you are not." He took her hand, placed the box in her palm and folded her fingers over it. "You are going through a rough time, Sara. Give it time—it will pass. For now, you keep these and whenever you are ready—I'll be there—courthouse, Elvis chapel, church, or—or Doc Robbins' back yard." He said this as playfully as he could. "With barbeque."

He felt a small ripple that almost became a laugh. "Maybe—maybe that's a plan."

Later in the day, he watched as she examined both rings. "Your fingers are longer," he explained as she held the rings side by side, a puzzled look on her face. He added "The width—that's why your ring is wider."

A ghost of a smile played around her mouth. "You really are a wonderful man."

He gave her a playful smirk. "You just now figured that out?"

With that she laughed, softly, almost her old giggle. Placing the rings and box back into the drawer of the bedside table, she came to him. Long fingers slid along his chest until her palms flattened against his shirt.

"I love you, Gil Grissom," she whispered as her mouth met his. She sensed his hands hovering on her back before he moved them lower, pressing their bodies together.

Her hands moved to unfasten his shirt; she drew her fingertips down his bare chest, fascinated by the feel of his smooth skin, comforted by the warmth of his flesh. She kissed his throat and then his shoulder as she glided her hands down his chest until she was stopped by the waistband of his trousers.

"Sara, Sara," he whispered as he propelled both toward the bed. He wished he could make her happy—he could make her happy, he thought, as they tumbled into bed. He laughed, the sound low, husky and warm. "You are beautiful, Sara."

He rolled onto his back and pulled her down onto his chest; she kissed with an unusual urgency that made him groan. She could feel him pressed against her thigh, heavy and rigid with desire. She kissed his chin, the small space behind his ear, slipping lower, touching him with her lips and tongue, wanting to give him pleasure.

Tugging her upright, he positioned her so she straddled his thighs. He stroked her, watching her face. She moved against his hand, twisting and clenching, until she pulled his erection inside her.

"Let me go first," she whispered, a silky, persuasive sound giving him all the stimulation he needed to please her. She moved above his body as waves of pleasure rippled through her. Her eyes closed as a delicious aching sensation built.

Watching her sent him to the limits of his control; as her body tensed, her hands twisted in his; as her impending climax grew into a crescendo, he pulled her close to his chest and rolled, clamping legs around hers, keeping them together. Her orgasm burst upon her like a storm, and seconds later, she gasped and gave a choked cry as her muscles rippled and pulled him deeper inside her.

She gripped his shoulders. The feel of her fingers sent shock waves to his feet, rolling through him with the force of lightning and he began to move, aware of pleasure, desire, and ultimate satisfaction. Sara was still convulsing around him, tiny spasms kneading his flesh in a warm, welcoming way as he floated down into a world of spent passion.

A while later Sara went to work and left Grissom sleeping. Exhaustion lingered, pressing against her sternum, simmering in her bloodstream. The balance had gone from her life, she thought, as she pushed open the locker room door.

A/N: _More chapters coming up, as reviews come in. Do the right thing. And to those who always send us a word or comment-thank you! You know you are the generous 'payment' for our work! _


	11. Chapter 11

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 11**

_Leaving Vegas_

The knife—the knife—her eyes could not focus; her mind filled with illogical images. Someone said her name.

With a child's eyes she saw the knife protruding from her father's back; no, it was not her father but a woman. A woman bleeding from a knife wound.

Her father had died, gurgling blood forming at his mouth. The woman talked.

A knife—a knife—she actually felt her body falling into a black hole before she was jerked back.

"Sara—Sara—Sara" someone—her mother's voice—no, it was Ronnie's voice—saying her name again and again.

She shook the fog from her brain and left the crime scene. Someone would report it; she would have to talk to Ecklie again. He had never liked her—she had to get out. Her brain played the scene over and over, deviating, converging, shape-changing from her father to the woman. The knife—a kitchen knife had killed her father. She had to get out.

By accident or chance, the murkiness in her mind lifted when Mandy caught her in the hallway.

"The one that got away." Marlon West. Hannah West.

Sara did not sleep; she did not eat. Relentlessly she searched for evidence. The tooth in the hand; Hannah at the scene. The brother's cooperation. Nothing. Nothing trapped Hannah.

If Sara closed her eyes, she saw the knife. Her eyes were not shut when she saw Marlon West in the cell. Her eyes did not close when she confronted Hannah—another little girl left with no one. And, Sara knew, Hannah would never find an Ernie Dell or Gil Grissom.

Peace would never come to Hannah. Peace and quiet, sleep, would never come—to Sara. She sat in her car and began writing. The ghosts of her past—her father, a dead teenager, a dying show girl, a starved foster child, a college student—a merry-go-round turned slowly in her brain. All of them were dead—some surprised, others horrified, a few stoic faces—as they went round and round on a carousel of death.

She wrote a note—a letter—trying to explain what she was doing but she had no idea what that was. She loved Gil Grissom more than life, but he did not want to see her self-destruct. He had said that once about Heather Kessler. Sara did not want him to see the same in her.

…The hardest thing he had ever done for Sara was paying for a ticket on a flight so she could leave Vegas. At the same time he reserved a rental car. While doing this, he kept wiping his eyes with the back of his hand; he had not cried in front of her and he forced himself to swallow the thickening lump in his throat.

He had found Sara. After reading her letter, he left the lab in a trail of whispers. Everyone—Hodges had seen to that—knew of Sara's bewildering kiss, knew she had torn her name from her vest and left without a word.

"I couldn't leave without seeing Hank," she whispered when he sat beside her.

"Sara, why are you leaving?"

"I have to leave, Gil. I can't stay here. Everywhere I look I see the dead. I can't close my eyes without seeing their faces—and sometimes it's my father's face. I think I'm going crazy."

Dark brown eyes glistening with tears looked at him. He pulled her closer.

"No, you are not. What can I do, Sara?"

"I can't stay here."

"Where will you go?"

Tears fell from her eyes and ran down her face.

"I'm going to see my mother. Maybe we can give my angry ghosts a proper burial—make them guardian spirits."

She had not resisted when he had given her a sleeping medication. He had removed her clothes, talking to her as he did so. Saying nothing important, just speaking to fill the emptiness he saw in her eyes. She had not resisted because he promised to put her on an airplane to San Francisco; she was adamant about going alone. For a while he stayed with her waiting for deep sleep to come. Strangely, as he undressed her, she appeared frail; somehow he had not noticed how thin she had become.

Reading her letter again, he almost cried as he heard the heart-breaking plea for help in her words. And he felt powerless.

He talked to Brass who told him about Marlon West. Ecklie agreed to approve extended leave. The department's nurse gave him two names of physicians who worked with work-related medical conditions.

Checking on her every ten minutes, he cooked—cutting up carrots, leeks, potatoes, celery for soup. He grated three different cheeses for sandwiches. He found so much food he knew Sara had eaten even less than he thought. By the time he talked to Sara's mother, finally getting the name of her case worker, he was almost hyperventilating. He left a brief recorded message, knowing the man was probably overloaded with clients with special needs.

If Sara was going to San Francisco, he would also find her a place to stay. They had gone once to visit Sara's mother; he had sat in a plastic chair in the building's lobby while Sara brought her mother downstairs. It had been a beautiful, cloudless day and they had driven north, across the Gold Gate Bridge, for lunch. Everyone agreed it had been a perfect day. They had stayed in a small hotel near her mother's facility; he dialed the number and made a reservation.

Grissom had lived with his mother's hearing loss almost all of his life, yet Sara had struggled with her mother's mental illness for decades. He leaned his head against the refrigerator and brought his fist against its surface. Why had he not seen this coming, he asked himself, softly beating his clenched hand over and over. A shuddering sob broke from his chest and he cried into his fists.

She would return, he told himself. She needed time to lay her ghosts to rest, talk with her mother, and learn about her father. He had convinced himself of all of this, agreeing with her as she packed a small bag and ate his soup. Again, he asked to go with her; she refused, insisting she needed to do this alone, as an adult, to face her past so she could have a future.

He walked her to the gate and watched a ghost of Sara Sidle pace until her flight was called. She promised to call, to eat and drive carefully. She waved goodbye from the jet way, and he knew his heart would not break, but the ache he felt was dangerously close to the organ that pumped his life's blood.

She needed to go, she insisted, to see her mother, to visit a grave, to see what she could learn about an event over two decades old. She took one bag, two necklaces, and a small blue marble; the rings remained closed inside their blue box.

Grissom said he understood when he really did not. He blamed himself—he should have recognized her deteriorating condition. He could have insisted she get professional treatment; he would—he would try to understand what had happened. With a deep, distressful sigh, he returned to his vehicle and waited until Sara's plane roared overhead. He stopped at his quiet house and took Hank to the dog sitter's and returned to work.

…The thundering emptiness that caused her to leave Las Vegas did not disappear in San Francisco. Broken shards of thoughts and conversations that had been with her since the night Natalie closed her in the truck of a car stayed with her as she walked the streets from her bed and breakfast hotel to the institutional building housing her mother. On her daily walks she heard the chatter of happy people who had never seen a dead body or experienced a night and day of hell in a desert. Once inside the care facility where her mother lived, the black hole that had started in her mind that night opened inside her. She could see it when she looked inward, wide, deep, and without light. She could see herself, on hands and knees at the rim of it trying not to be sucked into its darkness—into the very place where her mother had hidden for twenty years.

With her mother, as with Grissom, she tried to think herself free of this confusing-mind numbing daze. But the black hole inside kept pulling, dragging her into its depth. Another week passed and each day when she talked to Grissom, she managed to convince him she was forcing the pathetic image of herself to disappear.

Anything—everything seemed to slam Sara back into the desert, under the car, trying to walk to safety. Every night, while watching the news, her mind turned to war, plague and pestilence, famine and genocide, and the rape of women in the Sudan. And the hole that had opened within her grew deeper than Pandora's Box.

A simple art class in the large day room of her mother's facility whipped her back into that night—a sudden flash of the sun hitting a shiny surface as someone opened a window, a small model of a car laid on its roof by the man who was painting it. The abrupt and vivid memory pushed her back into her chair, her hands covered her face. If she made a sound, she did not hear it but suddenly there were people surrounding her.

A few minutes later, she was staring at a doctor—not a medical doctor, but a psychologist who had his office on the first floor and who saw the residents, or clients, who lived in the building. Instantly, Sara knew he was the state-paid shrink referred to by her mother as Doctor V.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I feel fine," Sara said, attempting to look self-confident even if she could not remember how she had gotten from the big room where everyone was painting or working with clay or building models to this office. Doctor V smiled slightly. "It must have been the sun—I didn't sleep well last night." She said as an explanation.

She did not want to talk to this man. Her mother liked him, trusted him. But Sara had been unable to trust anyone like him before in her life. She trusted Gil Grissom. She clamped her mind down; she wasn't going to cry in front of him either.

"May I call you Sara?" He asked, quietly, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose in a manner that was eerily familiar to her. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Yes." She managed to find the word.

"Your mother talks about you every week when I see her. She's delighted you have come for an extended visit—an emotion that is often difficult for her." He rolled his pen between his fingers. "What happened in the day room?"

She did not answer his question, not to be rude, but because she simply did not remember.

His voice remained soft, calm, so peaceful in his small gray office when he said: "Sara, you just had a classic episode of post-traumatic stress."

Her confusion showed in her face.

"You don't remember, do you?"

She shook her head.

"Has this happened before—that you can remember?" When she shook her head again, he continued. "I know you were kidnapped."

When she made an audible gasp, he said, "Your mother gets a newspaper from Las Vegas every day. When she learned you were kidnapped—by then you had been found—I called the hospital and finally got an update on your condition from…" he opened a drawer and flipped through papers. "Gil Grissom. He's the same person who called to tell your mother you were coming."

Suddenly, the anger eating from inside her gushed out. New tears filled her eyes; she could feel her mouth opening in the cry of a child. She was imploding, exploding, her body was turning inside out as a dam broke, her bones melted, her spine curved. Mucus poured from her nose and mixed with a deluge of tears.

The doctor was around the desk, hand outstretched offering a box of tissues to her. His face showed genuine concern and pain for her suffering. She had misjudged him; his hands were closing on her for an embrace. The deep black hole inside her opened and she felt herself tumbling into it. Somewhere in her brain she knew this kind-hearted man could help her. There was no magic bullet, no genie in a bottle, no ghosts to bury. He would let her say the words in her confused mind. The black hole was her brain and the longer she kept her thoughts there, the deeper the abyss became. She choked on a rising cry.

An hour passed. People came to his door and were waved away. Someone brought in bottles of water. Another box of tissues appeared.

Sara had no idea what she was saying. She didn't want to think about anything but she couldn't stop her brain from exploding like Mount St. Helens as she formed words describing the images of the night of her kidnapping and the day of walking in the desert. At some point she talked about her father, her mother, and the night her parents disappeared from her life.

"Is this the first time you've—you have talked to someone?" Doctor V asked; it had remained the same calm voice each time he spoke.

In that moment, Sara could not remember if she had talked to anyone else or not. She remembered what had happened-broken bones, wounds, bruises, the aches and pains of recovering physically. But as she stared into the face of this man, she could not remember.

Softly, he continued, "On Wednesday afternoon, I am here for appointments for people living outside of this facility." He opened up a flat black notebook on his desk. "You do need help—if not me, you need to talk to someone. Post traumatic stress syndrome is very real. You are having nightmares, uncontrollable thoughts about your recent event, flashbacks, which bring back memories of the death of your father."

He took the wad of soggy tissues from her hand. "This is an event in your life—you are experiencing common reactions to trauma. You may not want to talk about this, about your father's death, but getting help can help you recover. You do not have to live with this the rest of your life."

Sara caught new tears with fresh tissues. "I've lived with the ghost of my father for so long I don't think I even know the truth, Doctor."

"Sara," he said softly, "I've talked with your mother for years. Your father was killed by a woman with severe psychosis, undiagnosed at the time. She's schizophrenic and, with treatment, she's been able to live in a supportive environment. She is not the same woman who killed your father."

Sara agreed to return on Wednesday. She would talk to this man whose down-to-earth appearance belied his nature and knowledge. In the grip of emotions she had been afraid to show to anyone else, she saw the fine lines from worry and too little sleep in his face. He cared for people. He was not deceptive, no pretentiousness in his simple office or its furnishings. He was so very familiar to the person she loved most. As she left the building, she looked up. Sun rays glinted and sparkled off the windows of skyscrapers in the distance. For the first time in weeks, she felt the warmth of the sun on her skin as she walked.

She actually ordered food and ate her sandwich near the ferry terminal, watching people as they left work. As night came, Sara's hold on her fragile resolve continued. She talked to Grissom and heard a smile in his voice as he talked about work and she giggled, a true laugh that he recognized.

"I'm staying here a while, Gil," she said. He became silent. "I think I can talk with my mom's doctor—about everything."

There was a long silence before he spoke. "That's good, Sara. That's good."

_A/N: We got Sara to San Francisco...more to come. Now review and our story continues. Thanks!_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: This one will be 15 chapters, maybe 16. Enjoy!_

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 12**

_White sheets, dark chocolate, San Francisco_

Sara improved; she talked with Dr. Victor several times before asking her mother to join her so the two could talk about a forgotten history. It was not easy for mother and daughter to relate the same story, and both were surprised by the avoidance, the reticence, the wariness of each other.

The questions Sara asked of the psychologist captured his attention; he had been working with long-term mentally ill patients for a decade but Sara brought questions, interest and new information to the monotony of his job. Several times he asked if she wanted a referral to a psychiatrist and each time she refused.

"I like you," she laughed as they talked over a midday meal in the center of the facility's large dining room. "You see all these people who are dealing with—with impossible circumstances."

An older man shuffled to the table, hands shaking while holding a cafeteria tray, and stood beside Sara's chair.

"Sara, this is Lance—Lance, this is Sara." Doctor V stood and moved a chair over to the table. "Join us for lunch." After the old man settled in his chair, the doctor asked, "Can you tell Sara about yourself?"

The man nodded, weepy eyes peeking at Sara. "Laura's daughter," he said.

"Yes, I am. It's nice to meet you," Sara smiled. She had seen the man, with his head down, his pace slow, dressed in a uniform of sorts of dark pants and white shirt and a bolero tie in place around his neck.

"Lance has been here for—is it ten years yet?"

The runny eyes lifted. "Ten years ago I came here from a hospital." He looked at Doctor V for confirmation. "I had been at the hospital for eighteen years." His voice shook yet he produced a tentative smile. "I like living here." The fork he picked up shook so much Sara was afraid his food would never make it to his mouth.

Sara agreed the facility was a nice place.

The food made it to his mouth followed by a sip of water. He placed his fork on his plate. "I live here because it's safe for me." His smile returned with more confidence. "See this scar on my neck? Someone tried to kill me but he didn't. I lost a lot of blood that night." The old man chuckled and, amused with his story, he said, "I also lost some of my brain that night." Sara realized he was not as old as he appeared.

"Lance is a success story—much like your mother is," Doctor V said.

Sara's mother took much pleasure in her daughter's company even at times when they had nothing to say. Laura Sidle had lived with strangers who became acquaintances for so long she had no basis to develop a relationship of mother to her grown daughter. She had made her own peace with her past and recognized the role she played in Sara's search for the same thing.

The two women walked to area parks and drove to a quiet beach for a picnic. With the wind blowing from the Pacific Ocean they spent all afternoon exploring rock pools and digging toe holes in sand. Sara found a sea anemone tucked between shiny rocks; it was flourishing a crown of feelers, sifting and stirring the water.

The two women knelt and watched as the anemone seemed firmly rooted on its rock. From a distance, the two appeared as mirror images of long legs bent in the same way, an occasional hand going to push a curl of hair behind an ear, their motions more genetic than either one would ever see.

As Sara watched the sea-anemone her mother watched her. Quietly, she said "You are not like me, Sara."

A bewildered and confused Sara looked into a face that mirrored her own so nearly it was at once frightening and a glimpse into the future. Her mother's smile was different, Sara thought, but otherwise their faces were so similar. The form and shape of their bodies was almost identical.

"I'm not?"

A fleeting smile crossed her face. "We look alike, don't we? But you—you are strong, Sara. Don't let guilt stop your life. You've had a serious life-threatening experience that has brought a cascade of guilt and grief upon your young head." Laura dipped her fingertips in the pool of water. "I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble—about everything."

Her voice, so reserved yet so sincere, caused Sara to reach for her hand. "I'm sorry I haven't been much of a daughter to you."

Laura's fingers twisted in order to clasp Sara's more tightly. Her eyes filled with tears, but she held them back. "I have a home, Sara. This is where I belong—not you."

Sara blinked back her own tears. "I'm getting better, Mom, I really am."

…Three weeks after she arrived, Grissom drove her car to San Francisco for a long weekend visit. Walking from the hotel, which she was calling her temporary home, to dinner, Sara sneezed four times. By the time they had finished dinner, she was sniffling and coughing; her throat was scratchy and congestion was building into a headache.

"You are sick, Sara!" Grissom scolded as she pushed food around on her plate.

"It'll pass," she promised. "Allergies or something. I'll feel better as soon as I can get Nyquil." She sneezed and he passed her a white handkerchief. She buried her nose into its folds. "Thanks," she mumbled.

He reached across the table and took her half-eaten stuffed mushroom. "This is good food!" He was pleased and happy to see Sara becoming her old-self, a quick laugh, her broad smile; nothing clouded her face, her eyes sparkled and reflected the candles in a hundred points of light. She had cut her hair, he thought, and smiled as several curls bounced around her face.

Using his fork as a pointer, he said, "I like your hair."

When she laughed, he heard the sound of sincere happiness in her voice. He had forgotten the effect of it on his libido.

"We need to find a drug store," he said as he lifted the bill from the table.

Sara was the leader—she had reacquainted herself with the streets and alleys, the shortcuts between buildings of San Francisco, and found an all night pharmacy. They shopped for cold medicine and throat lozenges, candy and refrigerator magnet-souvenirs for everyone in the lab, and then stood behind two other customers waiting to pay. Displayed along the front of the counter was a large round rack of packaged condoms.

Grissom chuckled, "Do we need these, dear?" His finger raked across the front of several packages as he set the rack twirling.

Sara shook her head and slipped a hand around his elbow making a face at him when he stopped the motion of the rack and pointed. Ignoring her shaking head, he picked up a package and threw it in the basket with their other items. She giggled until she hiccupped, choked herself and coughed between giggles for two minutes while he paid.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He gave her a lusting smirk. "We'll have fun." She nodded her head, managed to breathe normally, and began to snicker again until her entire body was shaking.

The bored night-clerk was chucking their purchases into a plastic bag. "Do you need a receipt, sir?"

"No" Grissom said as he grabbed the bag and pushed her ahead of him to the sidewalk. "What is so funny?" He pulled her closer thinking it was good to hear her laugh.

"You got chocolate ones! Chocolate condoms!" She giggled. "The ones from the commercial!"

His response was an actual snort. "What commercials?"

She threw her head back; her laughter roared skyward. "The one where the milkman delivers the milk and all the women have chocolate covered teeth when he leaves!"

"I don't think I've ever seen that commercial," he declared.

Sara hugged him close. Between giggles, she said, "Well, you'll have your own private commercial soon!"

The hotel's small lobby was at the end of a long hallway sandwiched between a souvenir shop and a children's clothing store. The place was small and private, friendly and watchful at the same time. Sara headed for the staircase instead of waiting for the elevator which, she claimed, was original to the building. The place was well kept, the wood smelled of polish, and the brass-colored knobs and fittings gleamed. Climbing steps to the third floor, the elevator quietly slid pass them to the lower floors.

When they entered her room, a lump rose in his throat—seeing for the second time the small room she called her temporary home. It was as he expected it to be—neat, only a few personal items beside the bed, everything else was in the small closet. And he knew the closet was as orderly as the room—several pairs of jeans, a half-dozen shirts, her jacket, another pair of shoes. The bathroom was the same way—a few toiletries one needed in a temporary place. Yet it was not lonely or bleak; the brass bed covered with a white coverlet was welcoming. Two chairs, a small table, a very small sofa were grouped together. He knew the windows overlooked a rooftop garden two floors below.

She walked to the windows and pushed them open. "It's cool and I'm growing to like the quiet sounds at night." She glanced back at him, seeking his approval. There seemed to be a shift in shape and form, yet she knew every line of his body and every curl on his head and he had not changed, not physically. Yet now she saw the tenderness on his face, the passion in his unguarded eyes.

He held out his hand. "Come here," he said.

A few seconds passed before she moved; later, she did not remember any interval between his request and the moment when his arms closed around her. Without releasing her lips, Grissom managed to remove his shirt, unbutton his pants, and pulled her shirt to her neck before parting briefly to tug it over her head. Sara returned his kisses with an enthusiasm that threatened to deprive him of breath.

Without words, they made love. Meticulous attention was given to her neck as he kissed her from one earlobe to the valley between her breasts, taking what seemed to Sara to be an extremely long time. She managed to push her pants off and pull him into bed.

The softness of the bed surprised Grissom as they sunk in downy bedding that seemed to wrap around and over them. His tongue circled, sucked and tasted; his hands moved along the familiar curvature of her body, finally reaching her backside. Somehow, she managed to get his pants off with a push of her foot and suddenly he was released, flesh to flesh as their bodies arced, curled, and folded around each other.

Sara's passionate filled moan aroused him as nothing else could do. His hand slid between her thighs; the scent of her filled his head. Frantic, excited kisses rained on his hair. He heard her say his name as a breathless plea and returned his mouth to hers.

Without releasing her lips, he eased into her softness—warm, tight, constricting against his erection. Over and over again, he drove himself into her with her legs locked around his. The sensations of exquisite passion grew into an explosion and without warning, Sara trembled and convulsed beneath him. He heard himself say in a hoarse whisper, "I can not wait…"

A soft cry and he pumped, rapidly, then slowly, as his body moved in rhythm to making love. His hands kneaded her butt as the pulse of her orgasm faded. In a second of thought, he wondered if she would always have this effect on him. In the next moment his climax roared through him as a cleansing fire.

Sara slowly floated to awareness in a cloud of puffy whiteness feeling a very familiar weight across her body. Three weeks or three years and she would know the feel of his body against hers. She opened her eyes and smiled.

Two intensely blue eyes watched her.

"We forgot the chocolate," she whispered and giggled.

"We have time." He shifted slightly but kept himself embedded in her body. She squeezed muscles and he grinned. "Tell me what you do every day."

"You already know."

"Tell me again."

She wiggled and heard an inarticulate groan. His eyes met hers and she recognized the unmistakable gleam of desire mingled with something else—unadulterated lust.

The pain forming behind her eyes, the muscle aches creeping around her shoulders did not disappear, but she pulled her own desire forward and pushed physical pain temporarily from her brain.

"Chocolate," she whispered and scrambled quickly from the bed to find the dark brown and silver package. She tore the corner from the foiled wrapped square and chocolate syrup oozed onto her finger. "Oops!" She hopped back into the bed and straddled Grissom's thighs. She smiled a broad-face-changing grin. "I think there might be a better use for this." She squeezed the packet until chocolate made a small mound in the center of his chest.

Grissom raised his head enough to see what she was doing. "This could get very messy," he said. Her finger was tracing chocolate circles across his chest.

Sara smiled, then pressed her lips together in a mocking thought. "I know where the clean sheets are kept, dear." She leaned forward and dipped the tip of her tongue into chocolate. "Dark chocolate." She sat up, folded her arms across her chest, and waggled her fingers. "But my favorite way to eat chocolate is," a giggle erupted, "a chocolate covered banana, especially when some very tasty nuts are included."

As things turned out, chocolate syrup was very messy in bed on white sheets. And the chocolate never got on the 'banana' after Grissom began licking it from Sara's fingers. By the time the three condoms were opened, and both decided the chocolate tasted better than expected, they had chocolate smeared on noses, behind ears, from chest to naval, between thighs and several other places that had caused both to laugh until they were breathless.

Grissom used a corner of the sheet to wipe a smudge of chocolate from her mouth. "Dear Sara, I've missed you every minute of every day," he said.

Lying very still beside him, her head against his shoulder, she said, "I feel like Manuela Saenz."

"The lover of Simon Bolivar?"

She giggled, "Yes."

"Why?"

"I was forced from my home as a child and after a long while, I found you—my lover, my confidant, my home."

A breath of answering laughter warmed her skin. She continued, "I shall go to Quito one day and find a place that bears her name!"

"Will you invite me to go?" He laughed and drew her closer.

"Yes, we'll go together." She slept then, but he lay awake for some time, holding her as the outside air entered the open windows and cooled their skin.

By the time the sun managed to bounce its rays into their windows, Sara was awake and knew she was sick with more than passing allergies. Her body ached, her nose ran, her eyes watered, and Grissom was in the shower—singing. Chocolate was smeared in places on the bed sheets that made her cringe at how they had played in the night. She pulled sheets from the bed and gathered clothing scattered over the floor. Her head pounded every time she bent over.

Grissom's first words to her were: "Oh, honey—you…" he started laughing and propelled her to a mirror.

After a long shower, she felt better—well enough, she thought. They would enjoy the day sight-seeing. She would dose herself with antihistamines and caffeine and talk herself into wellness. Which she did.

They walked steep streets, ran downhill in a beautiful park overlooking the city, and wandered along paths of the Presidio until they were in the middle of its forest where limited visibility made the place appear more isolated and much larger than it was. They meandered all afternoon until they reached the beach and sat on the sand.

"This may be the most beautiful place in America," Grissom said as they watched ocean going ships and sailboats share space in the bay. He reached for Sara and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. His hand went to her face; she was still thin, he thought, and so fragile. And hot, burning with fever.

"Sara! You are sick—seriously sick! You have a fever!"

He got her to the hotel in a taxi and put her into a freshly made bed with clean sheets—no evidence of chocolate had been left in the room. He went downstairs to the breakfast area, found tea and brought a cup back to her room.

"Drink this," he ordered, "and I'm going to find food—soup?"

"I don't want to be sick, Gil."

His hand smoothed her hair. "You have been swallowing caffeine drinks all day—and what else?"

"Antihistamines," she mumbled. "I don't want to be sick—not with you here."

Grissom laughed. "Better I'm here than you being alone." He pulled the sheet to her chin. "I'll turn on the television and go get food." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Stay here."

By the time he left, Sara was recovering well enough to insist he return to Vegas. He did not ask when she would return. Time and tragedy would make that decision.

Before they saw each other again, another's world would come crashing to a stop—permanently.

A/N:_ Time is always difficult to determine between Sara's first departure and Warrick's death and Sara's second departure, so we made our own! Thanks for reading. Those of you who kindly share your thoughts and comments are truly wonderful people! Thanks so much!_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: A long chapter-a lot of time, but we decided it needed to be one very long chapter. Thanks for reading!_

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 13**

_Blackness to brightness_

The longer she was in Vegas the more the black hole opened up, ripping itself with such fury she knew she was losing her balance—the abyss that had almost closed when she got the phone call about Warrick was pulling her inward. The death was waiting to hit her; she could feel it like a dark shadow drifting around her, past the corners of her eyes. Her ghosts were no longer the dead, but the projections of the living, drifts of guilt, fear, failure and mortality too great to be contained in the mind.

Every hour was painful; watching Grissom as he attempted to regain his own equilibrium brought an excruciating bone deep fear. Sara watched him, uncharacteristically quiet, day after day, as everyone looked to him for guidance, comfort, for what came next.

Then Pam Adler died—killed by lack of oxygen when her husband stopped its flow. The air exhaled from Sara's body as Grissom spoke nearly stopped her own life.

Hollowness was not precisely an emotion; it was a lack of one, a confusion of nothing because, other than an elusive, vague anger, Sara felt nothing. A little insanity episode, a believable lie, a—a whatever it was at Grissom's desk, and the love she had known was there for nearly a decade was gone. Sadness, sorrow, grief did not describe what she was feeling as she packed the few remaining items in her bag.

She flew back to San Francisco and made the decision it was time to move forward with life. Stasis, he had said. She had tried to talk Grissom into a trip—a vacation, time to grieve for Warrick away from other deaths. He had spoken his thoughts about their relationship—she had thought they could withstand anything. Stasis—a state of no change. The pit opened inside her and altered her life.

Sara returned to San Francisco, to Doctor V and her mother. Both were surprised but gratified to hear of her plans to take a trip.

"You need this," the psychologist said. He was polite enough not to ask or he assumed Grissom was going with her.

Laura Sidle was more curious. "Will Gil go with you?" Her mother asked. When Sara shook her head, her mother said, "Then he'll join you later—that's good. He needs to get away too."

Sara looked around her mother's small room—a world easily understood with her simple belongings. She knew she had waded back into her mother's life, into this room, swimming in the contradictions of love and loathing. The room had not changed since Sara had arrived weeks ago and would not change in the future. Her mother kept an orderly room: her red-beaded rosary and clock were on the bedside table in the same place. Her mother sat near the window in an old upholstery chair, knitting needles and yarn in her lap, while Sara sat on the bed.

It was easier to let the subject drop.

Sara smiled. "I'll send a postcard from wherever I go, Mom."

…Inside the house it was dark. Grissom turned on a light to a strangely quiet house. He called, "Sara!"

Everything in the kitchen was in its place and moving toward the bedroom, he saw the small folded note with his name on it beside the dog's treats.

_Gil_, she wrote_. I've left Hank with the sitter. I'm flying back to San Francisco for a while and then I'm going somewhere—not sure where, but I think I'll go where the sun shines every day. Take care. Know I love you. Sara. _

Somehow he managed to sit. Sara was gone—she was ready to leave, he knew that. But then Pam Adler had died—Pam's husband had lied. He read the note again, fumbled for his cell phone and pressed a number. He heard her phone ringing in the bedroom.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled. "What have I done?"

He cursed himself. Leaving the chair, he hurried into the bedroom. Bed neatly made, he passed it, checked the bathroom, and then his office. Nothing. He moved to the chest and opened the top drawer. Inside, neatly arranged were the small boxes of jewelry—nothing was missing. He did not have to look knowing what he would find, but he checked the bedside table and found the blue box with the two wedding bands.

Without mindful directions from his brain, he lay on the bed, his arms stretched out on either side. After a long while, he realized his body was aching from immobility. He felt he was at the bottom of the world looking up.

…Sara's last night in her hotel room, she woke and realized she had dreamed of Grissom. She remained in bed while the room filled with light and let the dream come back to her, how they were floating side by side on an inflatable raft. The water moved under them with a lulling rhythm and large birds were diving and scooping up fish. He said something in her ear and she turned, but in the way of dreams, she was alone with a sense of losing all track of time.

Since coming to San Francisco, talking with Doctor V, she had rarely remembered dreams but this one was vivid. She could see the pearls of water beading on her skin, the burning blue look in his eyes, his fingers touching her. She wondered what the good psychologist would say about this dream.

Finally, she crawled from the bed, packed everything she had in two small bags, and took a cab to the terminal. In her pocket she carried a small blue marble etched to resemble the planet, a memento of a life she had once shared.

Her car had been left in the small garage where her mother lived, keys left with the psychologist. "I'll return," she said. "Drive it while I'm gone. You'll be surprised at how much you'll enjoy driving a hybrid."

The terminal was organized chaos as boarding a ship had a screening process similar to boarding an airplane and everything she carried was checked, scanned, or patted down. And the ship she was sailing on carried fifty-five passengers and crew, not the thousands that were waiting in line for one of the huge cruise ships.

…Grissom tried to sleep, willing himself to stay in bed. Exhaustion, a wounded spirit, an aching head kept him from what he needed. An area around his right temple throbbed insistently. Days became nights and he worked, mechanically, monotonously, and incessantly.

A month after she left, on a rainy night, confused by Sara's video message and exhausted from insomnia, he knocked on the door of an old friend and for the first time in weeks, he slept. Alone in bed, with Heather sitting in the room reading from a book he had given her years before, he slept for hours where there were no memories of Sara.

A few days later, he tried watching a baseball game—or it was on the television—while one thought chased another after another. At one time, he could sit in front of a game with absolute absorption, but no longer. His eyes focused on the television screen. Everyone was singing. He thought he could blot everything out, calm the anxiety that had begun when Sara had left his office that day. He still felt the hopelessness that had come over him that night.

Desperate to alleviate his anguish, he made the decision to locate Sara. He called her mother who was as unaware of Sara's travel plans as he was, but she read to him from a postcard she had just received. He talked to the psychologist who was surprised to learn he and Sara were not together, but the man provided a telephone number for emergencies. With the number and, taking time to fabricate a story, he found the small ship that had left San Francisco heading to the Galapagos Islands with thirty paying passengers and a crew that included biologists, chemists, and geologists. From those islands, the group would go to Quito, Ecuador, before traveling to research center in Costa Rica.

Finally, he knew where she was—or would be within days. He tried to compose an email but deleted it; after several attempts, he gave up. He had no idea what to say.

Grissom found no respite in anything—hours at work passed in a blur of man's wickedness, wanton deaths, and dissolute depravity. At home Hank thought his owner was a phantom, arriving at odd hours, and leaving a few hours later. Finally, Grissom took the dog to his mother who fretted over the dog and her son. Betty Grissom would not ask, but she recognized the worried lines around her son's eyes. She knew Sara had been absent too long.

"Go to Sara, Gil," she signed.

He shook his head unable to answer or explain. He could not tell his mother he was the cause of Sara's disappearance.

What eventually saved him was a vision. One night he saw the result of a love that disappeared. He heard a woman trying to explain how she had denied her lover, how the lover was living in the past—an abandoned place where he had been loved, where he had retreated. He watched lonely old men playing cards in a private club and when Catherine talked to him about "family" he knew where his family—his heart—was. Not in Las Vegas.

…Sara sat up in bed. Something was different. It was, she realized, the stillness of her bed. She got up and flipped on a lamp and looked at the two postcards she had purchased. She had seen the wonders of an open ocean, water as far as one could see. She had watched the largest whales and the smallest dolphins of the Pacific from the deck of the ship. Three hundred hammerhead sharks had gathered in the whirling current of an extinct volcano as she stared, open-mouthed, unable to utter a word. She had seen the wonders of Galapagos, literally walked in the footsteps of Darwin, as she strolled along the white sand beach of Tortuga Bay. She had seen tortoises and iguanas and blue-footed Boobies up close as they crossed the path in front of her, unafraid of human visitors. And she shared her experiences with no one. She was the loner, the odd one who took photographs of others but asked for none of herself.

A dozen times during her travels, a moonless night on the ship, while walking the paths of the islands, when she arrived in Quito and found a school bearing Manuela Saenz' name, she had cried for Grissom—so desperately wanting him to share it with her. But gradually, she was changing—the abyss she had been running from was gone. There was sorrow, regret for things done and undone that brought painful thoughts, but the hopelessness had been banished.

She flew to Costa Rica from Ecuador with a few of her fellow passengers from the ship. As a group, they would help several researchers in the rainforest for a month. She was the youngest member of the group by a decade and the only single female which meant she lived in one of the floored tents by herself. Everyone treated her kindly, offering transitory friendship as they settled into temporary living quarters, sharing their stories with her while she offered nothing.

For all anyone knew, she came from no where; her life was here. She called no one, wrote no letters, did not check email. It was clear she did not wish to be asked about her life, but occasionally, someone, without meaning to, would cause a look to pass over her face. At times, she would volunteer a fragment of information but never enough to complete the puzzle of her past.

Until the day a stranger arrived at the research station, no one knew anything about Sara Sidle except she was an extremely diligent worker and she was a vegetarian.

At mid-day while attempting to photograph a monkey who had successfully grabbed fruit from the table, her mind played a trick on her. The little monkey had scampered around the tree as she took photographs of him. And without warning, the monkey grew still, watching something behind her. Slowly, she turned. She saw someone completely out of context, someone who wasn't supposed to be there, which caused a mild disorientation in her brain. Blinking in disbelief, she watched as a sweaty Gil Grissom dropped a backpack from his shoulders and smiled. It was not a disorientation; he was walking toward her with a soft, familiar grin on his face.

She tried to smile, to look normal, as his arms stretched out to her.

Within an hour, everyone working at the sight knew Sara's boyfriend—fiancé—had arrived from Las Vegas, wedding rings in his pocket, with every intention of marrying her as soon as she agreed. And she agreed within minutes of his announcement.

As with the rest of their life, from its beginning when they met until the moment in which they were standing, theirs was an unconventional relationship, engagement and marriage by anyone's standards. Costa Rican laws required certain documents to be filed before a marriage took place, so thirty days passed before the actual ceremony occurred, and an atmosphere of an untraditional honeymoon developed between them and the people around them.

By nightfall of the first day, the entire group of volunteers, researchers, and native Costa Ricans recognized two people who were in love and had been for a long time. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a shoulder touching as she showed him something of interest, a lift of an eyebrow, a nod of the head—all done in silence and side by side.

An older man said: "They've worked together for a long time."

His wife scoffed, "And look who can see the past! You know nothing old man!"

"You'll see," he said with a laugh. "Those two managed to hide their romance while in plain sight."

When it came time to sleep, everyone seemed to melt into tents, even leaving the unisex bathroom strangely vacant. One of the researchers played a recording of animal sounds every night—he said it helped keep unwanted wildlife from entering work areas—and on the first night of Grissom's arrival, he turned the sound up a notch.

Sara had smiled so much her face ached in a good way. Again and again, she said "You came."

Grissom would respond each time with "Yes, I did." A similar grin plastered on his face.

Their eyes adjusted to the night, recognizing shadows as objects and seeing each other by reflections of dark and light.

Inside her tent, as the night sounds settled around them, silence in the seclusion of the tent's netting welled around them. Sara thought they had passed through the eye of a tiny needle into a place that was separated from all previous time. For a few minutes she could not speak, afraid she would embarrass herself by crying.

In the distance, Sara heard the swish of rain moving through the rainforest.

"Rain," she said. "It'll be cooler."

She could see Grissom was standing three feet away, his white shirt and pants gave him a mystical appearance. His fingers were pressed together revealing his nervousness. They stared at each for one whole minute, eyes fastened in an unspoken intention. Sara was aware she was breathing faster than usual. She stepped toward him, close enough to smell the cleanliness from his shower. He reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping arms around her.

"Sara," he whispered, pushing a hand into her hair and pulling her face to his.

She closed her eyes and let him unfasten each button on her shirt and then lift the tee-shirt over her head. He unsnapped her pants and pushed them into a puddle around her ankles, leaving her standing in pale blue panties and a white sports bra. His hands moved back to her shoulders.

"I hate these bras," he whispered, a hint of laughter in his voice, as he slid a thumb under each strap.

Quickly, her fingertips were under the edge of the fabric and the bra was off. He laughed, stooped over and removed his shoes and had his shirt off before he straightened.

"Come here," he said and she leaned against his chest. "I'm so sorry, Sara."

The sound of a warm shush met his ear. Her head moved from side-to-side. "Not now, not ever." Her lips touched the side of his face. "We've passed through that black hole."

He lowered her to the bed—not quite a cot, larger than that, but smaller than a full-sized bed—covered with a lumpy mattress, a white sheet and a cotton blanket. In an instant the weeks of separation vanished as they twined together and made love, minute by minute remembering each other's bodies, the softness, the desire, the heat made more vivid and radiant by the wildness of where they were.

Some time later, as they lay together, still nude, warmed by each other's body, Grissom fumbled with his bag. Sara knew he had only basic clothing with him, leaving a suitcase stored at some vague place in the offices of the research facility.

"I have something for you," he said as he brought a small box out of his pack and placed it on her chest. "You left everything—I wanted something special to mark the day we marry."

Sara lifted the box, shaking it lightly. In the dark, hearing the rattle of a chain, she knew the gift was a necklace—her primary choice for jewelry. She reached for her flashlight; they kept artificial light to a minimum inside the tents and the one she had was no larger than a penlight. Grissom took the light and held it while she opened the box.

"Oh," was her first word as she pulled the long gold chain from the box. "Oh, Gil. Oh." At the end of the chain was a large teardrop of gold amber. Tiny beads of red amber were spaced along delicate links of gold. "Oh," she said again. The flashlight made the gold amber sparkle and flash. Sara's thumb caressed the stone; she brought it closer to her eyes.

"Oh, Gil, this is yours!"

"It is—was. Now it's yours."

Tears filled her eyes and ran silently down her face. The amber had been given to him by his grandfather—a perfect fossilized bee not much larger than the end of a fingernail had been caught inside the hard resin. With the amber, his grandfather had given him a magnifying glass. It was the first time he had ever used a magnifying glass; the amber was one of the few childhood treasures he had kept as he grew older.

"I have nothing for you," she said between sniffles.

Grissom turned off the flashlight and brought the sheet around both of them. "I have you, Sara. You are my heart, my breath, my soul."

During the following days, the prior careers of Sara and Grissom gradually became known to field researchers. They had seldom met, or worked with, two people who could set up parameters, grid a work space, write readable notes, and remove all evidence of the human presence. Then they learned Grissom knew about bugs—not just the identity of the usual, but classification and characteristics, order, families, genus, and scientific name. And when the conversation turned to Lepidoptera—butterflies and moths—his knowledge was encyclopedic.

"You want to work—for pay—on a grant?" One of the French researchers asked.

Grissom pointed his thumb toward Sara. "My future wife will make those decisions."

The day came when Grissom and Sara had scheduled an appointment with a local magistrate—a notary by any description—who had the governmental authority to perform civil ceremonies for couples wanting to marry. Needing two witnesses, and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, they tore paper into bits, marked two with "X" and everyone willing to be a witness, drew out a slip of paper.

The Costa Rican cook got the first marked paper and the French researcher got the second one. Both men clapped hands and did a little dance at what they considered their special selection. The women did not give up easily, insisting everyone should go, if not as witnesses, as guests to the first wedding anyone could remember occurring among the volunteers, researchers or staff.

When the words were said, their signatures on the official document, the two looked at each other and grinned from ear to ear. The guests applauded, whistled, and created a celebratory chaos in the normally quiet café where they gathered around a common table to commemorate the event. Grissom wore a clean white shirt and khaki pants and could not keep his hands from touching his wife.

Sara, who had never planned on having a wedding, purchased a new white shirt in the local market. White threads had been stitched around the neckline creating a design of white-on-white. She balked at wearing a skirt until Grissom said: "I love your legs in a dress." So she found a skirt in the same market—a red skirt.

"It matches my necklace," she explained to the other women as she showed her wedding gift to them.

It was her wedding night, she thought as she propped her elbows on the bed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. With the other hand, she played and twirled the gold necklace that had been around her neck all day. The day had been hectic with all the excitement that pervaded such events and she should be exhausted but she felt intensely alive. At the sight of Grissom coming from the bathroom, she smiled.

"Comfortable bed?" He asked as he walked toward her.

She rolled to her back and welcomed him into the big bed. At the feel of his strong, solid body, a warm longing flowered in Sara. He settled her against the pillows and leaned over her, his hands braced on very expensive sheets. His sparkling eyes reminded her of the ocean on the day she had seen so many sharks.

"Hammerheads," she whispered.

"Sharks?" Confused clouded his face.

"I saw hundreds of them one day—they were stirring the ocean—and your eyes are the color of the ocean that day."

A bubbling, throaty laugh developed deep in his chest and burst from his mouth. "I love you, Sara." He kissed her. "I believe I've married the right woman."

_A/N: Almost finished - there are two more shopping for Sara events. This was a long chapter and we have a very busy week coming up, so the next two chapters will come-eventually-stay with us! Writing about Paris takes time...thanks for reading, we appreciate all of your comments!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: A very long chapter! Thanks for reading! After this chapter, there is one more to finish this story!_

**Shopping for Sara **

**Chapter 14**

_Paris in the spring_

As soon as Sara woke up, she knew the sun was shining. Without opening her eyes she could feel the brightness of the sun on the east facing windows. She rolled over to empty space in the bed, managed to open her eyes, and had to squint. The thin curtains were pulled back and her husband was standing in the doorway to the tiny balcony. She must have made a noise because he turned his head in her direction, smiled and winked.

"It's early—go back to sleep," he said softly. His voice was so erotic with early morning huskiness she was instantly aroused. She lifted the sheet, beckoning him to return to bed.

"What time is your class?" Was her question but her intent was something else.

He returned to bed. When his hands laced into her hair another flush of sensation spread through her. He kissed her below her right ear, down her jaw to her chin and worked his way to her left ear with kisses that barely brushed her skin, but the touch of his lips made her squirm. When he moved on top of her, Sara welcomed his weight. The deep arching motions of her pelvis communicated her need, yet he kept maneuvering her, repositioning, fondling, sucking, not listening to her weak protests until finally their bodies reached the equivalent of critical mass. It was impossible to make any movement without sending them both over the edge.

"Don't move," he said but by then his voice was even more erotic as his final thrusts began and she dissolved into the luxuriant rapture of one long spasm of pleasure.

When she opened her eyes again, her husband was again absent from bed. She lay in bed and nudged her nose into his pillow. The apartment was so small she could hear his movements in the minuscule bathroom even with the door closed. She stayed in bed enjoying the interlude between sleep and wakefulness; she no longer had a job or any other place to be by a certain time. She was truly a 'lady of leisure' and as she stretched in bed, she thought about what she would do with the rest of her day.

The bathroom door opened and clunked into the foot of the bed. Grissom shushed himself and then noticed she was awake.

"Sorry, honey," he gave her a sheepish grin. "I'm trying to be quiet." He dropped his shoe.

She giggled.

"Stay in bed—I'm off in minutes." He gave her a lopsided grin. "We sort of dozed off." He leaned over the bed and kissed her. "Meet me for lunch?"

Sara nodded. "I will." She turned her face upward and he kissed her again. "See you then." She watched him leave and pulled a book from the small shelf over the bed.

The weather in Paris had been perfect for weeks and everything about the place was unique and beautiful to Sara Sidle Grissom. As she walked along an unknown street, she would turn a corner and the view would literally take her breath away. The first week after they arrived, seeing the Champs-Elysees with the Arc de Triomphe ahead and the huge French flag waving in the arch had made unexpected tears come to her eyes.

When Sara thought she had seen every beautiful vista in the city, she looked around at the people and saw Arab wives, protected by bodyguards, shopping along one of its famous streets. She recognized Catherine Deneuve sitting at an outdoor table laughing and talking with her friends. And she smiled at a woman walking three small dogs, so fluffed and covered with bows, she had to stop and watch as they disappeared into one of the numerous beautiful doors along a tree-shaded street.

Between sightseeing and people watching, Sara had discovered two favorite pastimes. She read voraciously every book she could find in the book stalls and stores—books she had never heard of and books that were best sellers. She read new books, old books, books that cost her fifty cents, and then swapped stacks of books for new ones. Grissom teased her that any day he expected to find her reading romance novels. She ignored his teasing and bought one the next day.

Her second passion was eating and she ate—not alone, her husband was usually with her—foods in cafes and from food carts, from neighborhood grocers and the large department stores that had shelves filled with exotic and mundane packages of foods. Within a few weeks in Paris she had her favorite places to eat, to walk, to sit and watch. Food crossed her mind several times as she strolled from their apartment to the university campus.

She kept cooking to a minimum because the furnished kitchen came with a two burner cook top, an oven the size of a basketball, a small refrigerator, and a sink slightly larger than her crime case had been. She smiled at the thought of Las Vegas as she found her 'regular' bench for waiting for her husband. The word husband caused a wider grin.

Everyone in Vegas had acted surprised when they had announced their marriage—surprise coming because she had actually married and was wearing a wedding band to show the world. She sighed; even Conrad Ecklie had been nice to her. Earlier in the day she had received an email from Ecklie asking if she would call him. Probably some case she had worked two or three years ago was finally making it to a courtroom.

Leaning back on the bench, she looked to the sky—the same sky above Las Vegas and Costa Rica and France but it changed from place to place just as she had changed. She wanted change; so did Grissom. She was no longer the emotional wreck who had left Las Vegas, not once, but twice. Her life—their life—was so much more than she could have imagined. Gil Grissom had shown her a new life, by finding her, by marrying her, by showing no qualms about her bizarre family history. In turn, she had encouraged him to follow a dream, to teach in Paris when the position was offered, to continue with another semester. For the first time in a very long time, Sara felt sure of herself, certain of her emotions, strong in her conviction that the world was a good place.

Sudden tears gathered in her eyes; rapidly she blinked. Just one thing niggled at her mind, not enough to cause the unexpected tears, she wanted to believe. Seven months was not a long time, not in a life time, not in a marriage, but it was when broken down in cycles of days.

Grissom's words had caught her by surprise; she had never thought she would marry and the once usual progression sang in the playground rhyme had never caused her to have a second thought about what came after marriage. Until they were married. She had walked out of a market stall and found Grissom using his rudimentary Spanish language skills with three school age children who were 'interviewing' him as part of a class project. He had thrown his head back and laughed with delight as one of the boys explained he had just used the wrong word for wife.

Later that day during siesta, lying on their bed nearly naked with fingers twined, he had said: "We've never talked about having children, have we?"

"No." Sara responded, uncertain as to what his question meant.

He rolled to face her. "So, what do you think?" That afternoon they had started one of the longest, most sincere and heartfelt conversations they had ever had. One that continued for weeks until they had reached an impasse of sorts—let nature decide.

She swiped a hand across her eyes and two seconds later felt the warmth of a familiar hand touch her shoulder followed by a loving face blotting out the Paris sky. With a smile meant only for him, she touched his face.

"I don't suppose this is a coincidence," she said as he leaned closer and kissed her.

His eyes reflected the color of the sky caressing her as only he could do. "I'm glad you came," he said. "You must be starving." He grinned. "Unless you've already eaten from every crepe cart on every corner."

She laughed remembering his encouragement to stay in bed this morning as he attempted to quietly get dressed while bumping into every piece of furniture in the two-room apartment.

They left the center of the university buildings heading to a quiet street and a café frequented by locals, too far from the famous tourist sights to attract many foreigners. The place was old—Grissom said Hemmingway had eaten from the flowered china—and the once yellow-gold painted cherubs smiled from wallpaper that was probably stuck on by years of accumulated smoke and grease. Yet the food was some of the best, tastiest they had ever eaten. Sara ordered her favorite—Clafoutis aux Epinards—a spinach flan made with Gruyere cheese. Grissom ordered something different each visit and today it was a creamy mussel stew. Until coming to Paris, Sara had eaten healthy whole grain bread, but the fresh, hot French croissant had become a treat to her as much as the street-corner made crepes.

"I talked with your mother this morning—you need to send her a schedule so she'll know when you are home," Sara said after their plates were on the table. She was constantly amazed at how the French presented food as beautiful as a master's painting. "Hank is fine—misses us but his second—no, third—mother seems to love him."

"Mom is his grandmother," Grissom chuckled.

"And Ecklie emailed me."

"Ahhh—I got an email too." Grissom forked several green beans on her plate. "Haricot verts. Are you going to eat these?"

She pushed her plate toward him. She narrowed her eyes as she asked "You know something, don't you? What's the case?"

"He wants you to call him," his eyebrows lifted, "and did not tell me why." He watched her for a few minutes. "Have you looked for something to wear on Saturday?"

"Black," she said as she reached for another piece of bread.

The invitation had arrived the week before for the university president's annual social event; a stiff, creamy envelope with an expensively printed card inside.

They had repeated this conversation several times. "You are in Paris, dear. Buy a new dress." He checked his watch. "No, we'll buy a new dress!" A phone call using his budding command of French had someone agreeing to meet his students until he returned.

Sara moaned and complained. She hated to shop for clothes—she hated to shop. "I don't even know how to compare sizes, Gil."

He had her hand and led her in the direction of several of Paris' largest department stores. But before reaching the boulevard, they passed a small shop with three beautiful dresses displayed in the window. Grissom backed up and opened the door.

"That's the dress," he said, pointing to the dress in the center.

"Gil!" Sara's protest was for naught. She tapped the well-known name on the door and he shrugged his shoulders.

An immaculately dressed older woman greeted them with a slight nod of her head. Sara hid her amusement behind her hand as Grissom started speaking in French, made several mistakes, and then the woman spoke in English.

"You wish the young woman to have the blue dress?" She asked, her face barely moving as she spoke. She seemed to take Sara's measurements with her eyes, then lifted her hand in a twirl. Sara turned.

She knew they looked like a couple of typical American tourists in their jeans and casual shirts.

The woman walked to the desk, wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Grissom. She said: "This is a limited designer dress—very beautiful." She handed Grissom the paper. He glanced at it.

Smiling, he handed the paper back to the woman. "I want her to try it on." Reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his wallet, he handed her a credit card. "This should cover it."

Sara's eyes rolled. "Gil," she whispered, "Do not buy this dress! I'll shop—I'll find something other than black."

The woman stepped away from them, removed the dress from the window, and disappeared behind a curtain.

Grissom turned to Sara, placed his hands on her arms, smiled, and said, "Try this dress on. My gift, dear. You will be the most beautiful woman in Paris."

The curtain parted and the woman returned carrying the dress. "This is your size—may I ask your name?"

"Sara." Replied both of them.

"Sara, your height is an advantage when buying a dress like this. Would you step into the back. We have—what do you say? Under garments for fitting." The woman smiled and pulled the curtain back.

Killing Grissom was on her mind as Sara stripped her shirt and jeans off and pulled a thin silky tube up to her chest. She was pretty sure this "under garment" was like a disposable sock worn when trying on shoes—more expensive but served the same purpose. She tugged it below her hips and smoothed it over her breasts. Glancing in the mirror, she thought she resembled a pale sausage.

The woman had the dress ready to slide over Sara's head. She made a few adjustments while Sara held her arms out. Expert hands, Sara thought. This woman had dressed others many times. She almost giggled at her thoughts; like Doc Robbins with the dead.

"Oh, madam Sara—this is perfection!" For the first time, a genuine smile formed on the sales woman's face. "It is not often, but this dress was made for you." She circled Sara, smoothing the fabric over Sara's hips, shaping the dress to her body. "Is there an occasion?"

Sara nodded. "My husband—he's working at the Sorbonne—a seminar—he's teaching and the president is having a party we're going to."

The woman was rummaging behind Sara's back while she talked so Sara turned to find herself face-to-face with a large triple mirror the woman had uncovered.

"Oh!" The reflection was Sara's face but the rest of the image was that of a stranger wearing a cobalt blue silk dress with a deep plunging 'V' neckline, tucks that emphasized her waist, and a skirt that stopped just above her knees. "Wow!" The pale sausage had disappeared.

The woman continued smiling. "It is perfection, yes?"

Sara giggled, embarrassed by her reaction. "I've never seen me look like this."

"You need heels—taupe, very pale," the lady touched Sara's arm. "Like you."

Sara turned several times in front of the mirror. She frowned as she turned the second time. "What does this dress cost?" She asked.

The woman held a finger to her lips. "Your husband knows the price—but I will give a discount because there is no adjustment to be made." She walked to the curtain and pulled it back. "Let him see how beautiful you are!"

…The night of the president's social gathering, Sara and Grissom took a taxi to an address in one of the oldest and quietest moneyed neighborhoods in France. The street was a single row of elegant three-story houses protected by wrought-iron fences, most obscured by dense foliage.

The door was opened by a man who served that purpose and showed them up a flight of stairs to an imposing silk-walled reception area which opened to another large room where waiters were serving drinks in tall glasses and waitresses walked around with trays of bite-sized appetizers.

They were met by the president, a rather ageless man, wearing a formal dinner jacket and a bow tie that was slightly askew. "So pleased you've come," he said in a voice that articulated his English words very carefully.

Someone else appeared and the Grissoms were quickly swallowed into the second room. This soirée was for researchers in the sciences so at least one-half of the people in the room knew one another by name or by recognition and the party had already swelled to a chattering crowd. Those who had met Sara introduced her to others; the French researcher who had been at their wedding spread the story of the event to others.

The party went from petite snacks of cheese croissants, tomato toast points, melted Brie on baguettes, and a dozen other meat and fish appetizers to more food served in an even larger dining room with magnificent chandeliers and long dining tables covered with glittering crystal and china. The hors d'oeuvres were quickly forgotten when the dinner, which followed French tradition, lasted nearly three hours.

When the last of the desserts were eaten, some magical wand waved and everyone left the dining room and went downstairs where a small orchestra was playing. By the time the last person had reached the first floor, several of the couples were dancing. Others divided into small groups and talked about research topics.

The music was a waltz, sweet and slow, and the one dance Grissom did with surprising grace. His face lit up, "A waltz," he said and pulled Sara onto the dance floor.

Sara knew they were well matched and tonight some kind of enchantment wrapped them as they waltzed, every movement perfectly matched. If anyone had watched closely, and a number of people did, they would have seen two dancers who appeared to be directed by a single mind. When the dance ended, Sara leaned to Grissom's ear and caused a smile. It was not long before they left the party after first making the rounds to thank their host and say goodbye to others.

It was early summer and the Parisian night flared with life—bistros stayed open late, café terraces were filled with people laughing, so they chose to walk, at least part of the way since Sara was wearing heels.

"You're beautiful, you know."

She squeezed his hand and leaned her head against him. His arm came around her shoulders.

"I'm going back, Gil." She felt his lips touch her hair.

"You don't have to do this."

She sighed. "No, I don't. I know that. You are doing what you love and I sort of want to finish up a few things." She laughed, softly. "We might need to settle down and six months from now there might not be an opening."

"I don't have to stay." He stopped walking. "Do you think you're pregnant?"

"No, no—you would be the second one to know. I'm not, but if we should have a baby, we'll need insurance, a hospital—a doctor!" She tugged him along. "And I'll get myself checked out. See if all the pipes are open."

"Sara, I'm not sure I want to be away from you."

"You won't be—not for long," she laughed. "And you'll always know where I am—always." She tucked her arm into his as they walked. "Ecklie agreed I could work ten days on and have a week off. I'll fly back here."

"Only if you really want to do this."

She hugged him. "You will be home in two months—I'll be back here in less than two weeks."

He chuckled. "Are you really that tired of Paris? Or homesick?"

"Not homesick," she said as she pointed to a taxi. "Let's get home quickly." She emphasized the word "home".

In the backseat of the taxi, Grissom leaned over and kissed her, one so passionate that their mouths did not separate until the cab driver's grumpy voice interrupted them. As soon as they were inside the building, they were together again. Grissom pressed the elevator button with his thumb while keeping a hand on her right thigh. He kept kissing her until they were at the door of their apartment and every breath Sara took caused a plume of sensation straight down between her legs.

Finally, the lock turned and they were inside; she was pushing his jacket from his shoulders as his lips stayed in contact with her skin.

"The dress, Gil," she whispered. "Help me out of the dress!"

The luxurious garment landed in a pool of blue around her high-priced taupe heels. Her delicate necklace of gold glittered around her neck.

Softly, Grissom whistled. "And I thought the dress was sexy—turn around." He held her hand high while she turned. "And what is this called?"

"It's a demi bra—no lines—keeps things in place. Now help me get out of it." She started peeling the thin strap from her shoulder.

Grissom reached to touch the gold amber which rested between her breasts. The grin had not left his face. "Leave this on." She shot him a quizzical look. "And the shoes. Just for a minute—I'll take them off."

With fine delicate movements, his fingers seemed to barely touch her as he worked the clasp of the bra and then his palms slipped under her breasts as he pushed it off. His thumb lighted stroked one nipple while his lips took the other. Sara shivered, her breath caught for a few seconds as he placed a circle of kisses on her flesh.

His hand left her breast and moved downward, around to her backside finding the lace band of her panties. With several swift motions, he pushed and her panties joined the dress. Sara remained still, naked except for shoes and necklace, as his hands and lips drifted over her, tasting, stroking, exploring.

Grissom bent to his knee, lifted her foot and balanced it on his thigh. She reached a hand to his shoulder and at her touch, he looked up. "My God, you are beautiful." His hand traced the shoe to her heel before he removed it. Shifting slightly, he did the same with her foot. His hands closed around her calf and moved up the length of her leg to her thigh. One hand cradled her butt as his fingers reached the apex of her legs; his thumb sought out her moist intimate folds.

"Gil," Sara whispered, her body trembling.

He withdrew his hand from between her legs, moved her foot to the floor, and leaned his head against her thighs, hugging her lower body tightly to his. Something in the tender, yet intense way his arms felt around her body caused Sara to slip to her knees. She took his face in her hands.

His mouth was like a warm drug on her skin—soothing, teasing, provoking her to respond—and she did. His clothing served as an impediment to her searching hands so she pushed him away.

"Bed—now—I can't wait any longer." Her voice was thick with passion as she stumbled to her feet bringing Grissom with her.

He gave a soft, hoarse laugh that dissolved into a husky groan. He reached out and cupped her butt as they ran toward the bed.

Sara giggled and scrambled into bed.

Grissom stopped, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, toed the shoes from his feet, and removed his pants. Sara watched with half-closed eyes at the display of unadulterated masculine arousal; she groaned when he wiggled his hips.

"That boy isn't doing me any good waving in the wind."

She looked at him, eyes suddenly moistened with the love she felt for this man; she grew serious. _"Me faire l'amour…"_ (Make love to me)

Hours later, Sara was awake, wrapped in Grissom's white dress shirt. She sat in a chair near the windows and gazed out into the darkness. The window was opened to let in the cooler night air. She had slept for several hours before quietly and carefully crawling over her husband. For the past hour she had been thinking.

She had agreed to return to Vegas and work with her old team—minus a very important supervisor. They—she and Grissom—would be fine, she knew; she would return to Paris or meet him at some half-way point for two months and then he would be home. At least for a while, she thought. He desperately wanted his own grant but most researchers said that might take several years.

She had agreed to return for her own very private reasons, too. She was so deep in thought she did not realize Grissom had gotten out of bed.

He asked. "What are you doing, dear?"

"Thinking."

"Anything interesting." His hand massaged her neck.

She caught his hand between hers. "I love you very much, Gil Grissom."

In a method he had developed over the years they had been together, he managed to nudge her from her seat, sit down, and bring her into his lap. "What else," he asked. His hands laced with hers.

"Going back—you don't think I'm crazy to do it?"

"Ahhh…" he sighed. "No, you are not crazy. We've talked about this. You can see your lady doctor. You'll tell everyone about our adventures. Hank will be thrilled to be in his house. You'll be fine; everyone will be ecstatic to have you back." He kissed her. "And I think I'll go back with you."

"No, Gil, we've talked about this!"

He chuckled. "I'm going back with you and then I'll return here. My mother wants to see me. I want to see Hank."

Sara laughed. "You would do that?"

He pressed his lips to hers and after a moment Sara made a soft sound and wrapped her arms around his neck. They made it to the bed and tumbled into rumpled sheets.

"I love you."

"More every day."

A/N: _Thank you so much for getting to this point with us! The last chapter soon! Reviews appreciated._


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Here's the last long chapter! We know we have changed some 'official procedures' but its a liberty taken for fiction! We decided to write this chapter after a certain event was announced-you'll see what we mean! Hope you enjoy it-thanks for reading! And let us hear from you! _

**Shopping for Sara**

**Chapter 15**

_Vegas in the spring_

Sara flipped through a magazine on the table, fidgeted in her chair, sighed loudly to no one, finally got to her feet and paced across the small waiting area. She checked the clock on the wall—twenty minutes had passed since her husband had disappeared. Walking to the wall of windows, she pressed her hand against the glass.

"Huh!" She uttered in surprise at how her hand covered so much of the city to the west of where she stood. She spread her fingers and watched as the landscape changed with the movement of her hand—a simple exercise of mindless action.

Las Vegas was home now. It surprised her even after all this time that she had remained in the desert—left and returned—to make her home. After today, providing these final interviews were successful, they would be tied here, truly settling into a family life, promising to be here for the future.

Her work had changed—she was officially employed as a part-time crime investigator doing the same job that had brought her to Vegas years ago. Everyone knew the reason for her change; everyone, from Ecklie to the newest lab tech, voiced their support of this latest venture. Her fingers played a quiet tattoo on the window. She smiled; her husband, Dr. Gilbert Grissom, professor of forensic entomology, was enjoying his second career as a teacher and researcher at the local university. She smiled easily these days. He was home—at least most of the time. Occasionally, between semesters, for a few weeks in the summer, he would travel to the outer reaches of the globe on some exotic study of insects. She smiled again. She loved him no matter where he was.

The door behind her opened. "Sara" a female voice said, "Come back in!"

By the tone of the voice, Sara's smile spread across her face.

In a few minutes, culminating a year long journey, Sara and Gil Grissom were approved as foster parents.

"Now we wait," Grissom said as they left the building. Their fingers laced together.

"Thank you, Gil." Sara said as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

He opened the door of the car, keeping his hand on his wife as she settled back against the seat, and met her smile with his own. Impulsively, he leaned to her and placed a kiss on her forehead.

When he got in the driver's seat, she said, "I should go in to work. I promised Nick I'd finish up on the arson death."

"Sure you don't want to celebrate?"

Another smile swept across her face. "Not yet—we can have our own private celebration later."

Knowing what she meant, he covered her hand with his own. "I'll be there," he whispered.

After dropping her at the front door of the place he had spent so many years, he headed to the university, reflecting on the past two years.

Sara's mothering instinct had been evident for a decade as he remembered how she looked after, cared for and protected several of the younger lab employees, including Greg, with a tenderness and affection that still surprised him. She wanted to be a mother, yet unable to conceive, she watched silently as so many women had babies with ease.

Without her knowledge, he blamed himself—age, waiting so long to marry her, postponing what she wanted while he fulfilled his dreams. Then the realization she would never have his child—it had happened so gradually, yet within a few weeks their dream of a family had been ground to fine powder with an avalanche of medical testing and results. Even the possibility of in vitro and surrogacy became non-existent with the results of the final tests. Adoption efforts ended just as quickly. The tearful days that followed made him shiver in the bright Nevada sun.

Yet, Sara rebounded and with her bounce came his. He had been the first to suggest foster parenting and her eyes, shiny with sad tears, began to change.

"You would do that?" She asked.

"Certainly—we would be good—a stable home, a good dog." He pointed to his chest, "Both of us with a flexible schedule—we could take young kids."

He pulled into a parking lot reserved for faculty and sat in the car for a few minutes. The social worker had said they could receive a call at any time. A child might need a home for a few nights, a week, or several months, and occasionally, a young child could be adopted. His fingers removed the key; a foster adoption would be a good thing, he thought, as he stepped out of the car. Age was not an obstacle in the foster system—age of parents, he specified to himself.

Walking across campus, he breathed a deep breath of spring air. The part of campus he walked across was a rare place in Las Vegas—trees, real hardwoods, had been planted in a double line when the university was barely more than a building and a parking lot. And the trees had flourished, providing an avenue of shade as an oasis provided water. Several students greeted him as he crossed campus to his office.

Most of his insects and specimens from his former offices, at home and the lab, had found a second home in this new place. Students were fascinated by his collections—some older than the young people who stood in his office. He gave a two-fingered wave to the secretaries clustered in the central area, opened the door to his office, grabbed a stack of papers and books and headed to the research lab.

As he worked, he made a mental list—of course, Sara had a list of what needed to be done, but he still made his own. He sighed, lifted his head, and day dreamed. A child would be fortunate to have Sara as a mother. She had already taken their second bedroom and made it "gender neutral"—he had decided that meant painting with red, yellow and blue colors. The beds were made with new linens; new towels were in the bathroom. A child knows when things are second-hand, she said. Several stuffed toys were placed on each bed because every child, regardless of age, needed to hold onto something.

His eyes went back to his microscope but did not register what was on the slide. In the quietness of lab, he shook his head, not in disbelief, but in an effort to organize his thoughts. Ten years ago, if anyone had suggested, or if anything he had ever done had indicated he would be unable to father a child, he would have scoffed at the suggestion, disbelieving the improbable likelihood of infertility. He had never been promiscuous; he had made cautious decisions before taking a woman to bed, and for years, he and Sara had been so careful to avoid pregnancy.

His ironic laugh echoed in the empty lab. They had finally been able to laugh—about his virility, about lust and love, about their joint barrenness, about the years when it had not mattered—because their efforts to have a family had revealed a history, either forgotten or never known, for both.

Grissom had learned from his mother that he had contracted mumps at the age of thirteen—an illness he vaguely remembered, as she revealed first-hand knowledge of the fever, the swelling of his jaw but nothing else—nothing to indicate a severe infection which could have affected his fertility. Of course, the physician was quick to point to mumps as only one possibility for a sperm count that did not reach the lowest required number and those few were termed "slow swimmers".

Sara's medical history was sketchier than his. And reasons for her infertility even more vague than his—scars on one ovary indicated prior cysts, immature eggs from the other, and then "premature ovarian failure" or was it "unknown factors". What had happened to them was a story as old as Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah; yet they had been able to move forward. If biology stymied them, if age prevented the usual process of adoption, they would keep other's children by providing a safe place, a loving home, for awhile, and maybe—maybe the social worker's subtle suggestion of finding a child in need of a permanent home would happen.

Later, they did celebrate; they had learned to enjoy the small efforts and occurrences of every day with a happiness that would have surprised most of their friends. Grissom stepped into the bathroom as Sara was toweling her hair.

"You are beautiful!" He said, kissing her as he removed his shirt. "Naked and lovely," he kissed her again as he kicked off his pants and stepped into the shower.

Sara, towel wrapped around her body, examined her face in the mirror. She had never been one to give much thought to how she looked. Today, she ran a finger along her eyebrows, down her cheek to her chin. Because Grissom always said she was beautiful, she looked hard at herself in the glass seeing a face that was no longer a puzzled girl but a calm, comfortable woman with a few wrinkles across her forehead and more than a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

She forgot about her face as she remembered the interview earlier in the day. For the first year of their marriage, both had been in a dream-denial phase, living in Costa Rica and Paris, spending so much time together—she smiled as she remembered the hours spent in bed—and no pregnancy. Her return to Vegas and her old job had been two-fold. At her age, she wanted, needed, to have her reproductive system checked out. As Catherine had said "Your clock is ticking, girl" without knowing the truth; Sara's clock had never really gotten to a full blown tick.

All the testing was over—had been over for months—and they were waiting for the next stage. Even if they got a child for a few weeks, they would make the best of that time, provide a brief interval of unrestricted love and companionship for a child. And maybe, possibly, a child who needed permanent parents would arrive in their home.

She had lost interest in her reflection yet she had remained in one place, leaning against the sink. When the shower door opened, she jerked back into real time just as her husband's head appeared.

"I didn't realize you were still out here," he said with an undisguised lustful chuckle.

Sara laughed. The lack of fecundity had not affected their desire for each other. She reached out, her hand raking through his damp hair.

Grissom brought his mouth to hers in a deep, scorching kiss. Warmth welled inside her, mingled with a sense of longing that brought tears to her eyes. Wet, naked, and quickly aroused, he tightened his arms around her.

"We should have showered together," he smiled against her cheek. "Saved water."

"I love you."

"Ah, my sweet Sara," he said as he pulled her towel off, using it to dry his face.

Sara felt the hard length of him pressing against her thigh; his desire filled her with a sense of strength, of unconcealed happiness. For a moment she was caught in a golden, glittering sensation as her neck arched, her eyes closed against the brightness of bathroom lights, and Grissom's lips began to kiss her just below her earlobe. But this was no dream, she reminded herself; this was very real.

With a mumbled incomprehensible exclamation, Grissom turned them both so they stumbled to the bed. Sara laughed softly and framed his face between her hands. She kissed him with a passion that always surprised him; her tongue surged into his mouth in an act of possession that presaged the more intimate one that would follow.

"I will never get enough of you," he whispered as he shifted to taste one nipple with his tongue before placing his ear against her chest.

For several minutes, they did not move as he listened to her heart. Then he began to kiss her, letting his hands play with her body, feeling his wife grow warm with desire.

Sara arched herself against him; her fingers pressed against his back as his palm closed over her triangle of softness. She was already damp. In seconds, his thumb parted her intimate folds, his finger found the opening to her core. Gently, he eased himself into her snug passage. He felt her tighten around him as his mouth came back to hers. Her arms wrapped him close, her legs gripped him.

The sensation of passion built; conscious thoughts disappeared. Sara's body tightened, lifted; her breathing came quickly. Just as she reached her climax, Grissom crushed his mouth against hers as she trembled and convulsed beneath him. Small tremors rippled through her body as he drove himself deeply into her as if he could become a part of her, and for a moment, he was.

…Weeks later, the call had come early in the day. "We have a baby who needs a temporary home."

Sara heard no more before saying "Yes."

"She has some complications…"

"We'll take her."

"She's—she's very small."

"We'll take her."

The social worker hesitated. "Sara, why don't you come in and meet her. There are some things you need to know."

"Tell us where to come."

The woman told her. "I'll meet you in the lobby—fourth floor. She's in the special care nursery."

They had prepared for an older child—a toddler, hopefully, yet expected a four or five year old—an adoptable infant was not the usual child placed with foster parents. Sara had clasped Grissom's hand in an iron grip the entire drive to the hospital.

They talked in spurts: "We don't have an infant car seat." "We don't have a crib." "We don't have her yet." "Special care—complications—what does that mean?" "The baby has to be a newborn." "We know nothing about an infant!" "We passed infant CPR."

Nervously, they finally laughed.

"Breathe deeply," Sara said with a laugh as they pulled into the parking garage.

Grissom hugged her once they were out of the car. "We'll figure this out—it may be for a few days, honey."

Clear eyed with a calm voice, she said, "I know—I think I'm still in shock—an infant, Gil!" She frowned quickly. "Do you think we can handle a diaper change?"

"Oh, yeah—can't be worse than decomp—or that wood-chipped body." He grinned. "Come on; let's go meet this baby girl."

The social worker and two other women met them in the lobby and after quick introductions, hand-washing and fitting into a disposable apron, they entered the quietly humming nursery, lights dimmed, walls and small cribs decorated in an attempt to create a less-institutionalized setting.

One of the nurses explained the mother's history, "She was dropped off by a trucker who insisted he had no knowledge of her other than picking her up the day before. History of meth use, but not positive when she was admitted."

Sara noticed a silent signal pass between nurse and social worker.

The nurse nodded. "The mother died shortly after delivery—there were multiple problems. Uncontrolled hypertension—full blown eclampsia, seizures when she arrived—nothing worked. A quick C-section," her hand pointed to a bassinet. "The physician initially thought blood clot, but the coroner has the body for final determination."

"How's the baby?" Grissom asked. "Can we see her?"

Everyone nodded. One of the nurses said, "She's doing really well, a bit underweight, but breathing on her own—she's a beautiful baby."

In the bassinet a little pink face with black curly hair as wispy as new feathers on a duckling showed above a yellow and white swaddling blanket. "We're calling her Anna Marie." The nurse said as she lifted the baby with practiced hands. "She's a week old today." Sara's hand shook as she reached for the baby. "In another week, she'll be ready to go home."

Sara's arms automatically extended as the nurse passed her the infant. The infant was no different from a thousand black haired, rosy babies, but Sara saw smooth honey-colored skin, a button nose, perfect pink lips, a miracle of beauty and biological engineering. Sara looked up to find Grissom's eyes and in that instant, she knew evolution was headed toward a greater good rather than random chaos.

The social worker spoke for the first time since entering the nursery. "We've put notices in a dozen newspapers that will run for six weeks just in case there are relatives. We are certain the mother gave a false name." Her eyes met Sara's. "We might get lucky."

Grissom's finger had lifted a curl of hair. The baby stirred and yawned. Sara made a soft sound of amazement.

"Anna Marie is a good name," he whispered in Sara's ear.

"She really is a good baby," one of the nurses said. "She's eating well, gaining weight, sleeps well." Someone sighed but neither Sara nor Grissom looked up.

The social worker spoke again. "She has a brother."

The two heads nearly touching immediately lifted. "A brother?" Grissom asked. They looked at the social worker and then at the nurse standing beside an infant incubator a few feet away. "Twins?" Both Grissoms said the word at the same time.

"Adam—he's not doing as well—he'll be here for several weeks, maybe more."

"Twins…" Sara whispered before recovering her voice. "You weren't going to separate them, were you?"

The social worker smiled, "No, I wanted to see if you were interested in Anna Marie, first. Adam will have to be here much longer—he needs someone to come in—rock him, give skin-to-skin contact. Let him know he belongs." Her eyes were hopeful. "Do you think you can manage both?"

Grissom spoke first, "We can do it." Without asking, he slipped hands under the bundle of humanity named Anna Marie and cradled her to his chest as naturally as the nurse had done. A slight tilt of his head moved Sara to the incubator where a dozen tubes and lines winded to a bank of machines beside and under the bassinet.

The nurse showed Sara how to place her hands into the incubator. This baby wore only a small diaper, the incubator keeping him warm, and around, between and under the lines stuck to his skin was a perfect face, smooth and relaxed; the same wispy feathers of dark hair covered his head. Sara's fingers gently touched the baby; his torso was no larger than her palm.

"He's so tiny," she whispered as she caressed the baby's head.

"You can hold him," the nurse said. "He just wasn't quite ready for the world."

After a rocking chair was placed near the incubator, the nurse wrapped the baby in a soft blanket, motioned for Sara to sit, and placed Adam in her arms.

"He's small, but he's tough and healthy as far as we know," the nurse said. "This is his heart monitor," her fingers lifted one of the tiny coils. She proceeded to explain the functions of each line attached to the small body.

The baby was warm in Sara's hands. Alive, she thought, a miracle. She heard a laugh and looked in the direction of the familiar sound. Her husband sat in a similar rocking chair, holding little Anna Marie, who was sucking from a small bottle.

Whispering loudly, he said "She's eating—drinking! I got her to eat!" A grin spread across his face. "I can do this!"

An hour later, they were sitting with the social worker who was explaining form after form before Sara and Grissom signed their name to each page. She had given them a thin booklet on infant exposure to illicit drugs after explaining what was known, and much that wasn't, about prenatal methamphetamine exposure.

"We are not sure how much drug exposure these babies had, but they need a quiet, peaceful place to thrive. A calm home, a lot of attention. That's why I thought of you."

Sara asked, "Do you think relatives—a father—will be found?"

The woman shook her head. "Unlikely. This year we've had forty-seven newborns abandoned at this hospital. Do you know how many parents have returned?" She made a circle with her thumb and index finger. "Do you know how many relatives have shown up to claim those babies?" She held up her hand again making the same sign. "Many are stuck in limbo; unknown effects of drug exposure keeps some potential parents away."

Before Sara or Grissom could think of another question, she pulled a thin file out of a drawer. "Sometimes life is subjective—we have to make impartial decisions as much as possible yet this is one of those cases that calls for presumption. I believe—as the nurses do who met you—that you are the parents these babies need." She pushed the file across the table. "This is everything we know about the birth mother. It's not much—we don't know who she was or where she came from, but I'd bet a paycheck no one's looking for her." She shook her head. "It's a pretty sad world when throw-away children have babies but you can turn things around." Quickly, she smiled. "I'm not supposed to say this because we have to give relatives six months to show up before adoption can be initiated, but I think you've got a good start on a family."

_Doubling happiness…_

Turning from the group of friends, Gil Grissom watched as the two women who had shaped his life circled the table doing what women did to a table before a meal. Sara had finally found the right table for the dining area—a large oval of recycled wood, smoothed to a warm luster and perfectly suited for their lives. His mother moved a high chair to the table and reached to take a squirming little girl from Sara.

The toddler giggled, showing pearly white teeth, as her grandmother placed her in the high chair. Anna Marie was a beautiful little girl; her black curls had grown into ringlets, her big aquamarine eyes were windows to a tranquil soul. She had dimples in her cheeks that turned into adorable little pits when she smiled, which was often and easy. If she had ever had a timid or fearful moment, no one remembered.

Sara slid another high chair to the table and motioned to Grissom who was holding Adam, his sister's twin by birth date only. The parentage puzzle of both children showed in the little boy with his dark beige skin, the way his brown eyes were set in their orbits, the absolute black of his straight glossy hair. He was more self-possessed than his sister in a two-year old way; he watched the adults around him and responded as they did, usually a few seconds later. His goal in life was to please everyone around him and problems that had plagued him for the first year of life had almost disappeared.

"Every thing is ready!" Sara called to the others.

Betty Grissom signed to the little boy in Grissom's arms causing him to giggle before he waved "yes" with a closed fist as an answer to her question.

It amazed Grissom how quickly the two babies had learned simple sign language before they could say words. His chuckle went unnoticed as everyone crowded around the table with Sara directing each one to a chair. In the ensuing chaos of people moving from one area to another, talking as they arrived at the table, Grissom thoughts went to the two children and his wife. Neither child shared DNA of the people they knew as parents yet they were his children, Sara's children, as much as any biological child. They had become the parents these babies needed; the smiles and temperament of the children reflected those of the adults around them.

The process of seating done, Grissom quickly took his chair. Greg, Nick, and Jim were there to celebrate Sara's birthday. Jim had brought cartons of ice cream; Greg and Nick had purchased a huge birthday cake and had spent several minutes adding candles to it with the help of the two year olds. Talk and signing between the friends slowed as food was passed.

Greg teased Adam when the toddler refused the offered eggplant. "It will make you grow tall like me!" The little boy shook his head, said "no" and signed the word at the same time.

Everyone laughed when Jim said "He's a genius—using three ways to say no! That's the way to go, kid!"

The energy at the table could light up half of the Strip as everyone tried to talk at once, someone was feeding something to one of the children, Sara was up more than down as she refilled glasses and brought more food to the table. And each time she passed her husband, her hand touched him in some way. She did the same with her two children.

Their four guests did not miss the looks that passed between the couple.

Near the end of the meal, as food disappeared and talk increased, Grissom tapped his fork against his glass to silence everyone—except for Anna Marie who proceeded to bang her fork in the same way.

"Birthday girl, remain seated, please!" He stood and reached behind several objects on the nearby shelves. "I know she said 'no presents' but that rule doesn't apply for me," he said, addressing the three men. He brought a small gift-wrapped box to the table and placed it in front of his wife.

"Gil!" She said with a laugh, happiness effervescing through her. "I have all I'll ever want."

He smirked a grin. "You didn't know you wanted this."

Carefully removing the silver and blue ribbons, she took time to separate the two colors and handed one strand to each of the babbling children. She opened the jewelry box and lifted a long gold coil. Attached to the delicate strand were three intricate gold bars enameled in bright colors. It took her a few seconds to comprehend the design—a blue sky, a meadow, a tiny butterfly, and lines of gold making stick figures, two very small and two larger ones.

"It's us!" She exclaimed, holding the pendants in her palm as she showed it to her mother-in-law.

Grissom took it from her hand and fastened it around her neck. "It is," he kissed her cheek. Sara's eyes glistened.

"It's beautiful, Gil." She knew it had been made especially for her; engraved on the back side were four names and birth dates.

There was a sudden return of noise as everyone talked at once; Betty brought the cake to the table as Nick and Greg cleared plates and bowls and brought clean ones to the table. The babies squealed with delight as Jim lit candles over Sara's protests of "too many".

After eating lots of cake and ice cream, the men insisted on cleaning the table and crowded into the kitchen to take charge of the dishwasher.

Betty signed, "We are so blessed" and hugged Sara before helping Adam from his high chair and letting him lead her to the living room where toys were quickly spilled onto the floor. Sara watched for a few minutes, still surprised by Betty's obvious love for the twins that began the first time she met them.

Turning, Sara lifted her daughter from her chair, hugged her, and raised her above her head. Anna Marie gurgled with laughter saying "Mommy" over and over as Sara made nonsense noises which caused the little girl to go limp with giggles.

Grissom stopped what he was doing in the kitchen and watched. One by one the other men did the same until Sara noticed them. Making a silly face, she put Anna Marie on the floor and directed the child toward her grandmother and brother. It did not bother her to see the looks of bewildered amusement on three faces; Grissom's expression was something else.

Hours later, Sara closed her eyes as Grissom placed quick kisses across her shoulder to the hollow of her throat, slipped an arm beneath her and pulled her to the place against him where she fit so well.

"Happy birthday, honey."

She smiled. "I feel like Dr Seuss, Gil. I hate to fall asleep because reality is so much better than my dreams."

He kissed her eyes, her lips, moved along her neck and down to take her breasts into his mouth, playing his tongue over each nipple, slowly, teasingly, while his hand, just as slowly and lightly, moved along the soft skin of her thigh.

Sara lay still, letting the waves of passion build within her, lifting her as if she were weightless, floating in a dream. They made love slowly, knowing the sounds and movements that long-time lovers know, laughing softly at secrets once learned and easily remembered. They pulled the sheet around them, wrapping together brought more aroused feelings, and, almost without moving, Grissom was inside Sara and they moved in harmony that was as familiar as their love.

"_You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." Dr. Seuss _

_A/N: Thank you to everyone-and especially to those who send us comments, reviews, and words of encouragement! We are not sure when the next story from 'Sarapals' will develop, but we are sure there is another story waiting! Again, thanks so much! Leave us a review-even if you've never written one before, you can now! :)_


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